


Survivors of Hannibal Lecter

by Onefriedchicken



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Gore, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-06 20:23:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1871205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onefriedchicken/pseuds/Onefriedchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chilton is supportive of Will Graham in the aftermath of the season two finale</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Will Wakes Up

Chapter One: Will 

White light stung at the back of Will’s eyelids as he loomed into consciousness. He kept his eyes closed, aware that opening them now would only hurt, but he was confused and on edge, unsure exactly where he was. He certainly wasn’t at home; no dogs. No smell, even, of dogs. And it was never this bright in his house. It did smell, familiar somehow though - like antiseptic. Hannibal would be so proud, he thought, using his nose to work out where he… Shit. Hannibal. Blood filled the space behind his eyes, Jack’s, Abigail’s, Alana’s, his. He knew where he was now, finally placing the smell. He was in hospital. Drowning in blood. Gasping for air, Will jerked upright, his eyes flying open.   
“Chilton?”  
The man, asleep on the chair before him, leapt to his feet. Why was Dr. Chilton here, Will wondered. His stomach burst into flames of pain, and Will eased back into a lying position, causing the bright burning to dull into bearable waves.  
“Mr. Graham,” the older man moved to the side of his bed, “you’re awake.”  
Will felt his heart sink. There was really only one reason the doctor would be here. They thought he was the Chesapeake Ripper again.   
“How many times do I have to say this,” he muttered angrily. “It’s Hannibal, for crying out loud.”  
Chilton frowned. “What?”  
“You. You’re here because they still think I’m the Ripper, aren’t you?”  
“No…” Chilton shook his head, sounding, well, he sounded hurt. He didn’t look so good, either, Will realised. Standing with the support of the cane, a fresh white patch adorned over his left cheek. Miriam.  
“Why are you here?” Will softened his tone. The Chilton before him was not the arrogant, self-serving doctor he had met in the Baltimore Institute for the Criminally Insane. This man was broken, deflated.   
“I wanted…” Chilton paused, cheeks colouring slightly. “I thought you would like someone to be here for you when you came to.”  
His words held more weight than the doctor had intended, hidden implications that made Will feel as if he wasn’t entirely here. His whole body crushed with dread. Dread of what the answer to his next question was going to be.  
“They’re all dead, aren’t they?”  
“No,” Chilton spoke quickly. “Alana’s fine. She did some damage to her spine and will be in rehabilitation - physical therapy - for months. But she should walk again.”  
“Abigail?”   
“In ICU. They don’t know yet.”  
“Jack?” it was a whisper, barely able to spit his friend’s name out through lips that were suddenly dry. Chilton shook his head.  
“I’m sorry.”   
Will swallowed. Silence floated over the pair as he struggled to maintain his composure, struggled not to lose it in front of the doctor.  
Chilton bit his lip. “Do you need anything? Can I… can I get you anything?”  
“Why are you here?” Will repeated.  
“I thought you would like someone…”  
“I know what you said,” Will replied. “But you don’t like me. You don’t get to be caring and tender. Why are you here?”  
“I do like you, Mr. Graham. And I’ve been in your shoes. It’s not nice to wake up in a hospital bed, alone, with not a familiar face in sight. You were there for me when I needed you, and so I’m here.”  
“I wasn’t there for you. I rang Jack.”  
“You thought it was best.”  
“You were shot in the face.”  
“And you had no idea that was going to happen. I don’t blame you for that, I blame Hannibal.”  
Will nodded. He was lying about something, but it was clear he wasn’t going to get it out of him today, so he changed tactic.  
“How long?”  
“Three weeks.”  
“And they still don’t know about Abigail?”  
“She’s in an induced coma. She lost a lot of blood, and they’re not prepared to test her yet. She’s very weak.”  
Will nodded.   
“How are you?” he asked.  
Chiton smiled - the tiniest twitch of muscles.   
“I’ve been better,” he said. “But all things considered… I’m alright. You?”  
“In a lot of pain,” Will replied, feeling another wave shake through him. He was sweating now, he was sure of it. Drowning.  
“Press the green button - morphine.”  
“No thanks.”  
“Mr. Graham, I really think you should. Maybe you can get some more rest.”  
Will pursed his lips. It seemed like a bizarre sort of competition for some reason, Chilton trying to persuade him to take the painkiller, Will trying to withstand the pain. Or maybe he was still wearing a Hannibal-suit, forever one-upping the pathetic man that ached beside him. Will pressed the button. Like the sea, it washed through him, dulling the fire in his belly, dulling his mind and slowing his racing heart. It left blackness in its wake, and Will slipped back into unconsciousness.

“No, Mr. Graham, I cannot let you do that,” the nurse leaned over the counter, glaring at him. It had been another three days, and Will was desperate to go home. “The only way I can sign you out is if you have a family member or friend that is willing to look after you. You’re in no condition to be alone right now.”  
Will ground his teeth, wishing for just a split second that Hannibal was still here. Abigail had pulled through, but was in isolation until they were sure she wouldn’t catch anything that could disrupt her recovery - by the end of the week Will would be allowed to visit. But with Jack dead, and Alana still in hospital, Will had no idea what had happened to his dogs. He needed to go home.  
“What about the man that has been visiting you?” the nurse asked, more kindly. She must’ve noticed something in the look on his face. “He sat by your side for almost a week, dear. Surely you can call him?”  
Chilton. He’d been gone the second time Will came to, and until now he’d wondered if he’d imagined their encounter. As much as he didn’t want to call the doctor, Will knew there was no one else. And he needed to get back to his dogs.  
“I… I don’t have his number,” Will said, forcing himself to make eye contact with the nurse. She blushed slightly, and he pulled puppy-dog eyes, knowing that flirting may be the only way for the next bit to work. “But he’s an outpatient here. Maybe if I give you his name, you could call him for me?”  
“Well, I don’t know, dear. We’re not really supposed to…”  
“Please. I don’t… everyone else is here or, or…” Will thought of Jack and stopped, unable to spit out that last word. Or dead, he thought.  
“I guess I can make an exception,” she smiled.

“Will?”   
Will glanced up from where he was seated in the hospital waiting room to see Chilton standing opposite, nervously fiddling with some car keys. A white bandage still adorned his cheek, and the garish silver cane supporting the weight of his body. He was scruffy, his bed unchecked, and dark rings encircled his eyes. Unlike his usual attire, the doctor was in jeans and an oversized grey sweater. Will shakily rose to his feet.   
“Chilton,” he managed a smile despite the searing pain in his stomach.   
“You don’t… hang on.” Chilton crossed the room with surprising speed, leaning into Will to support him as they hobbled out of the hospital. What a sight they must’ve been, Will thought, one cripple supporting another. Chilton’s red Jaguar XK 150 waited in the car park, and he lowered Will into the passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel.   
“Um…”  
“My house, please.”  
They drove in silence, Chilton awkwardly thumbing the steering wheel, desperately trying to think of something to say. Will ignored him, pretending not to notice as he quite enjoyed the gentle roar of the engine. It was a long drive to sit in silence, but it seemed short to Will, and soon they were pulling into his driveway. He could hear the dogs barking, scratching to be let out - so they were alive, at least. That was good.   
Will peeled open the car door, hobbling up the path to his house. He could hear Chilton fumbling out behind him, trotting over with that stupid cane of his. Letting himself in, he squatted painfully as the dogs tumbled around him, all tongues and tails.  
“I fed them for you,” Chilton said, gingerly petting the top of Winston’s head. “And took them for the odd walk, not that I’m up to going very far.”  
Confused, Will looked up at the older man.   
“Why?”   
“Well, no one else was going to.”  
“No, why are you helping me?”  
“We’re all Dr. Lecter’s survivors, Mr. Graham. Until he’s caught, we’re in this together. And no one knows what you’re going through quite like I do.”  
“So you’re honestly saying this has nothing to do with my ‘unique cocktail of personality disorders’? Nothing to do with trying to get under my skin, figure me out, publish me?”  
Chilton glared at him, nervousness gone.  
“No. And you know what? I was there for you when you woke up, I’ve driven you to your home so you could leave the hospital, and I fed your stupid bloody dogs and you haven’t even had the gratitude to say thank you. I know that you don’t like me, Mr. Graham, and I understand why. Your only other psychiatrist tried to gut you, so I can’t blame you for that. But rudeness I won’t tolerate,” Chilton huffed. “So goodbye.”  
Swivelling on his heel, he stormed (as much as possible, given the cane) out of Will’s house.  
Hugging Baxter close, Will watched the red sportscar zoom out of his driveway. Rude. Was that what had gotten Jack killed? No, Jack’s death was Will’s fault. Hannibal had wanted to run, wanted to take him and leave together. Jack, Abigail, Alana - all could’ve been preventable. But he had insisted they stay, had been so sure that Jack would win that he had cost him his life. Will suspected he would still have been gutted, eventually. Hannibal was like a cat, and Will would’ve been his plaything - alive only until the entertainment ran out, disposed of like a mouse or a piece of garbage. In a way, he had only survived because of his rejection of Dr. Lecter.  
But that was no excuse to be rude to Dr. Chilton. None of this was his fault, and he seemed not at all his usual arrogant self. Will sighed; he was going to have to apologise.


	2. Frederick has a Self-Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frederick tries to make a friend

Chapter Two: Frederick

Frederick Chilton sat in his red jag outside his house for a long time. At least the empty, lonely space inside his car was small, unlike the lofty corridors and unnecessary rooms of the house where he lived. He’d spent so much time trying to achieve at work he had forgotten to achieve in his personal life. No family, no friends. No one there for him when he recovered in hospital. Only an excruciatingly formal security guard telling him he’d been cleared of all charges and was free to go. He’d considered suing, trying to take back what the FBI stole from him with his arrest. But being angry took too much energy, and alienating more people was not in his best interests. Besides, they’d already taken care of the hospital bill. And when Frederick had found out Will Graham was in hospital, having gone after Dr. Lecter like he promised (only to end up gutted for his trouble), Frederick had decided to do something different for once. He’d driven to Will’s house, looked after his dogs and waited by his side for him to wake up. Maybe, just maybe, Frederick could make a friend here.   
And now it was all gone; he was back at his own house, totally alone. It was funny, really, in only three weeks, Will’s house had become more like home than his own, filled with wagging tails and noise and warmth. At first, he’d been nervous of letting himself in - the man was practically a stranger- but the key was under the door mat, and the dogs had already not been fed in two days; he correctly figured Will would be less concerned about breaking and entering than half a dozen dead friends. 

Finally, Frederick climbed out of the car and trotted up the driveway. The house was as chilling as he’d thought it was going to be, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. He moved through into a kitchen too nice to only ever be used for meals for one, and flicked on the jug. Professional cleaners had removed all of the bloodstains, but Frederick doubted the memories of death would ever fully be gone. Subconsciously he wandered into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, taking in the unruly stubble, the bags under his eyes, the bandage across his face. He had always been the sort of person who took extreme pride in his appearance, but now? What was the point anymore. It had been a week since he’d been allowed to remove the bandage, and he peeled it off his face now, throwing it haphazardly onto the white counter beside the sink. The stitches had been removed, and the wound was healing but it would leave an ugly scar, he knew. Already the area was hairless, red and raised, although the bruising in the nearby skin had almost gone. Now he wore the bandage just to cover it up, retain what was left of his once attractive features. He should trim his beard, put on a suit, comb his hair. It might even make him feel better. But it all seemed so silly now, the circular scar forever dominating his features.   
You’re lucky to be alive, they had told him. So why didn’t he feel lucky?

Frederick lay perfectly in the centre of his red-duvet, king-size bed staring at the crisp white ceiling. It was nearly midnight, and he’d slept less than four hours on any given night since he left the hospital but he remained wide awake. He should apologise to Will, he thought. That’s what friends did, even if he was in the right. It wasn’t as if there was anything left of his pride to keep him from doing so. Hannibal had seen to that. So what if Will had been rude to him today? He was a beautiful person, someone who Frederick should be so lucky as to call a friend. It was so quiet. So quiet. It would be nice to have Will around, he thought, nice to have some company, someone to break the harshness of his own self-loathing. The conversation they’d had at the hospital played over in his head, like a record stuck on repeat. Why are you here, Chilton?  
His mumbled reason was half-hearted at best and Will knew he was lying. More than anything, Frederick wished he could tell him the truth, wished he could tell Will exactly why he’d been in that hospital room. He should’ve, could’ve said he wanted a friend. But that still wouldn’t have been the whole truth. But how could he tell Will the truth if he wasn’t even sure himself? Chilton sighed. It was going to be a long night. 

He was woken mid-morning by hesitant knocking. Cautiously, he rose, wrapping himself in a dressing gown and hobbling to the door. He peeled it open to find Will standing on the doorstep, bundled into a jacket and carrying a bottle of wine.   
“May I come in?”  
Frederick stepped back from the doorway, allowing the younger man through. Will looked as tragic as he felt, and Frederick suspected he hadn’t slept much either.   
Shutting the door behind him, Frederick showed Will through into the lounge, avoiding the chair Hannibal had arranged him on, the one that still had specks of blood flecked through the armrests, and took a seat on the couch. Will sat across from him, bluntly passing him the wine.   
“I’m sorry for being rude, Chilton. You didn’t deserve that.”  
“It’s no problem, Mr. Graham,” he replied, surprised. “Did you want a cup of tea, or…?”  
“A glass of wine would be excellent. I’m sorry if it’s not good, I’m not really a wine person.”  
Frederick glanced at his watch. “It’s ten-thirty in the morning?”  
“Did you have plans?”  
“No, but…”  
“If you’re not comfortable drinking now, tea would be great. I just figured we could both use a way to relax.”  
He had a point. Frederick put the wine on the table and fetched two glasses. It was surprisingly good, and he said as much.  
“Good, I just picked an expensive one and figured that would be fine. How’d you sleep?”  
Frederick laughed. “From the looks of things, much the same as you.”  
“How long since you’ve slept properly, Chilton?”  
So forward. Chilton wondered if that was one of the things Hannibal had liked in Will? Certainly, it had its charm. Direct and to the point, none of the usual fluffing around things that people tended to do. No avoidance, no concern about feelings to the point where the intended question disappeared behind a huff of politeness.  
“Since before I was shot,” he answered, honestly, becoming startlingly aware he hadn’t bandaged his face. He lifted a hand to it instantly, apologising.  
“I didn’t… I… I’ll go get the bandage now, sorry you… I…”  
“Don’t.” Will interrupted. “You should be comfortable in your own home. And I doubt it’s as bad as you think it is.”  
Will smiled gently, and despite the fact that it was without light in his eyes, he still looked, well, beautiful. Frederick lowered his hand slowly, feeling self-conscious.  
“We all have scars now, Chilton.”  
“I know, I know. It’s just…” I’m too vain, he thought, unable to finish the sentence. Somehow, Will understood anyway. He nodded.  
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Will said, sipping the wine. “I thought maybe we should set up a sort of… support group. Survivors of Hannibal Lecter. Figured we could all use someone to talk to, and since two of you are psychiatrists, a group seems better than private counselling.”  
“That’s possibly quite a good idea, Mr. Graham,” Chilton brightened, Will’s company once a week, even if it was in the presence of Alana, would be very welcome. “Once Abigail and Alana are out of hospital, of course.”  
“Of course. Um, there’s one more survivor though.”  
“Who?”  
“Meriam Lass.”  
Frederick almost choked on his wine.  
“She shot me.”  
“She thought you were the Chesapeake Ripper.”  
“She probably still does.”  
“Well, if she does, she won’t be invited. And she won’t be allowed to bring a gun, of course.”  
“I…” Frederick haltered. If he said no, there was no guarantee of Will’s presence, Will’s company. Could he cope with Meriam being around if it meant getting close to this man, the only person he’d ever truly admired? Ever trusted?   
“I guess it’s really Hannibal to blame, not Miss Lass,” he said eventually. Will smiled.  
“Excellent. Can we have it here? I would offer my place, but…”  
“No, no, that’s fine.”


	3. Hangovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will drinks too much and ends up staying the night

Chapter Three: Will

Will sat in comfortable silence with Chilton for a while, Will glad of the company. His house felt haunted; everywhere he turned were memories of Hannibal, from the benign - like his soothing voice in Will’s head as he tried to sleep, to the horrific - slices of Mason Verger being fed to his dogs. He hadn’t slept well, and it had only strengthened his resolve to apologise to the doctor the following day. He had wondered if it was inappropriate to show up at a relative stranger’s house that early in the morning bearing an alcoholic gift, but he had remembered the bags under Chilton’s eyes, the way his shoulders had sagged instead of being held prim and proper, and figured it would be welcomed.   
“Oh, Mr. Graham. I have something you need to see,” Chilton broke the silence, using his cane to help himself up, before tapping off into the kitchen to fetch a newspaper. Returning, he dumped it in Will’s lap, and returned to his wine.   
Head of FBI Killed by Renowned Psychiatrist, the headline read. Will unfolded the newspaper, dated the day after Jack had been killed. A picture of Hannibal’s kitchen, bodies removed but still bloody, graced the front page. By Freddie Lounds, Will read; he should’ve known. He skimmed through the article, Jack Crawford dead…. wife Phyllis Crawford died later that day of lung cancer… FBI consultants Will Graham and Dr. Alana Bloom in critical condition… Hannibal Lecter considered extremely dangerous, call police if sighted and do not approach… may be in the company of Bedelia de Maurier…  
So Freddie had kept her promise after all - not a word about Abigail. All things considered, by Freddie Lounds’ standards, it was a factually correct, very non-biased article. Will was impressed. He folded the paper and put it aside.  
“What do you think?” asked Chilton. He’d finished his glass, and was pouring another - Will drained his to catch up.  
“For Freddie, that was excellent.”  
“She didn’t say anything bad about you,” he replied, replenishing Will’s glass. “Which is good.”  
Will nodded, unsure of why exactly Chilton cared.   
“So, Mr. Graham. What are your plans for today? Shall I make lunch?”  
“Please. And I’m not sure. I want to go fishing, or walk the dogs, but it’s not like I can do either of those things right now,” Will laughed.   
“Shall we finish the wine, and maybe watch a movie?” Chilton asked. “I don’t have anything better to do.”  
“Is this a date, Dr. Chilton?”  
“No of course not,” his voice was stern, but he was blushing, just a little. Will frowned. Maybe there was something else going on here.   
Quickly, Chilton stood, shuffling through into the kitchen to make sandwiches.   
“Vegetarian okay?” he called. “I don’t have any meat.”  
“That’s fine, thanks.”

Five bottles of wine later, and the movie (which to be quite honest Will hadn’t paid all that much attention to) finished, Will leaned back on the couch, feeling his head spin. Chilton was, he had to admit, much more appealing now that he had seemingly lost his drive to be right, to be perfect all the time. There was a sadness there, though, thought Will - the kindness had come at a price.  
“Are you okay?” he asked, suddenly. Chilton muted the TV (an unnecessarily large, in Will’s opinion, plasma mounted on one wall,) and turned to face him.  
“No, not really,” he replied, surprising himself with his own frankness.   
“By most accounts,” he continued, feeling the words tumble out, unable to push them back in, unable to change topic to something more comfortable. “I’m very successful in my chosen profession. I’ve dedicated my entire life to it, and what do I really have, at the end of the day? Nothing. I’m disrespected by my colleagues - a joke, even, to some, and I have not a single soul in the world to call my friend.”  
And suddenly it made sense. Chilton had been there for Will because no one had been there for him.   
“I’m so alone,” he added quietly, staring into his empty glass.  
“No you’re not,” Will replied.   
“Don’t you feel the same, Mr. Graham? Don’t you ever feel like you’ve totally isolated yourself from anybody who ever cared?”  
“I don’t mind being alone.”   
“Ah.”  
“But I have surprisingly enjoyed myself today, Chilton. You’re better company than I expected, and we should do this again. When are you back at work?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“I guess I’ll see you Friday, then.” Will stood, and immediately sat back down. He was drunker than he’d thought, especially given it was 8pm in the evening and they’d been drinking all day.  
“Are you alright, Will?” Chilton had leapt surprisingly quickly to his feet, and stood over him anxiously.   
“Yeah, I’m… I guess you’re not supposed to mix alcohol with painkillers, huh?” he laughed dryly. Chilton frowned.   
“Well, you can’t go home like that, do you want to stay in my spare room? I’d call you a cab, but then you’d have to pick up your car tomorrow anyway, so…”  
“Um, yeah. That’d be good, thanks,” Will replied, watching the room spin. Maybe he’d just sleep on the couch, actually, he was really, very tired…

It was very early morning when Will awoke to the sound of birds chirping outside. It took him a moment to remember where he was - Chilton’s spare room, of course. Well, he was pretty sure that’s where he was; the last thing he could remember was falling asleep on the couch. He threw back the covers, climbing slowly out of bed. His belly ached, and his head matched it, pounding from the influence of too much alcohol. He must have got into bed by himself, because there was no way that the shorter man could’ve carried him, although he was still fully dressed - so he suspected Chilton may have at least assisted him. Pulling on his shoes, Will found his way to the lounge area and snuck out of the house, not wanting to deal with next-day awkwardness. Gently, he shut the front door behind him, and his cellphone cried out in his pocket. Shit. He unlocked it quickly, glancing anxiously back at the house hoping it hadn’t woken his host, and slid into his car.  
“What is it?” he muttered, annoyed at the time of the call.  
“Hello, Mr. Graham. This is Kade Purnell, from the FBI speaking. I apologise for the awkward timing of this call, but it is rather urgent. Would you be able to come in to see me, please?”  
“Sorry, who?”  
“Kade Purnell. I’m acting director of the FBI. We’ve met before.”  
“Purnell,” Will repeated. “As in ‘plead guilty to Hannibal Lecter’s crimes or I’ll make sure you get the death penalty’?”  
“Yes, well. I had no way of knowing you were not responsible for those murders,” she retorted. “And I had to protect the integrity of the FBI.”  
“And now you have the audacity to ask for my help,” Will frowned. Hannibal would’ve had this woman for breakfast, he was sure of it.   
“Well, I’m sure you’ve seen the papers, Mr. Graham, and…”  
“No actually, I haven’t.”  
“Oh. I will explain everything when you get here, then.”  
“Thank you for your offer to take me back, Ms Purnell, especially after you called off the agents we had planned to protect Jack from Dr. Lecter, effectively ensuring his death, but I will have to decline.”  
“Call me if you change your mind,” she replied, and hung up the phone. Will glared at it in his hand. Her rudeness bothered him more than it should, he knew, and he felt anger bubble in his chest at the exchange. Maybe he remained more like Hannibal than he cared to admit.  
“Will?”   
Startled, Will glanced up from his phone. Chilton, wrapped in the dressing gown he’d spent all of yesterday wearing, peered into his window. Shit. He rolled down the window, and Chilton leaned through it, passing him a cup of orange juice. Will frowned at him.  
“For the hangover,” he said. “Take it. I don’t mind if you don’t bring the cup back, I have more than enough.”  
Passing Will the cup, he straightened, turning back to his house.  
“Wait, Chilton?”  
“Yes, Will?” Will? how long had he been calling him Will instead of Mr. Graham, Will wondered.  
“The FBI just rang, something about the papers. Do you know what that could be about?”


	4. Clockwork Killer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will gets sucked back into the FBI

Chapter Four: Will

Against Dr. Chilton’s advice, Will sat in Jack’s office, across Jack’s desk from Kade Purnell.   
“Thank you for coming in to see me,” she said, allowing the tiniest glimpse of a victory smile to spread across her face.   
“I take it this is about the clockwork killer,” Will replied, angry at himself for letting her win. But curiosity had got the better of him, and here he was. He’d gone home and showered first, of course, ridding himself of yesterday’s clothes, and most of a hangover. The hot water had stung at the stitches, and he wished he’d taken up Chilton’s offer of a bath at his.   
According to the papers, there was a new psychopath in town, someone immediately filling Hannibal’s shoes. The ‘clockwork killer’ had been leaving bodies for the past three weeks - five so far - leaving a piece of a clock in every victim. A signature, so to speak.   
“Here are the files,” she said. “Have a read, and then I’ll take you to the latest crime scene.”

Looking through the crime scene photos, Will understood why she’d called him in. The murderer was escalating, and quickly. The first ‘victim’ was already dead, dug out of a recent grave - the killer had taken her heart, leaving her chest open to expose the stopped clock that filled it’s place. It had been disturbing, sure, but not a priority, and the local police hadn’t contacted the FBI at that stage, thinking it was likely a one off occurrence. Four days later, a ‘real’ victim had turned up; strangled, the heart still removed but this time the clock had been in pieces, cogs and other clockwork - from multiple clocks, it noted - spilling out through the chest cavity. The third had been another three days, also strangled, this time the chest had been sewn shut again, and the relation had only been understood on autopsy. The fourth was more adventurous again, same as the third but left in a public place, arms stretched out to point out nine o’clock - time of death, estimated the coroner. He had been naked when they found him, the thread used to sew up the chest exposed for anyone to see. And the fifth, well the fifth had had his heart removed while it was still beating, the clock replacing it no longer stopped, ticking rhythmically in his chest. That had been two days ago, and there was already another victim. The FBI were right to be worried. 

Will climbed out of the car at the latest crime scene, and glanced up, shading his eyes from the sun. The sky overhead was so blue; a picturesque day to contrast with the horror he could already mostly see from where he stood. They were standing in a churchyard, the old stone building stretching out before him, reaching spires into the sky like fingers pointing to God. CSI swarmed the scene, and a firetruck was parked at the entrance, below a large, ornate clock.   
“This way,” Agent Purnell trotted off towards the firetruck, and like an obedient dog, Will followed.   
“I hear you like to work alone?” she asked, her tone still hostile. They were standing before the cherry picker, the hydraulic lift part of the firetruck.  
“Please,” he replied, and she glared at it. He stepped on, and she muttered something to one of the firemen causing the platform Will was standing on to raise into the air. It stopped level with the clock face. Speared onto the minute hand, was the body of a woman. She was naked, her face slouched forward over her chest. The big clock had long since been turned off, but Will thought he could hear ticking - perhaps a clock within a clock. He closed his eyes.  
She is alive when I slice her open, breaking ribs to get inside of her. I remove her heart, tearing it from her and replacing it with a timepiece. In a rush, I sew up her chest. It is important she is on the clock before rigor mortis sets in. I climb to the clock face and impale her on the minute hand. This is my design.

“What did you see?”   
The body lay before him on the morgue table, flanked by Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller. Purnell stood stiffly at the head, glaring intently across the body at Will. The victim’s chest had been split open again, the thick black threads of stitching discarded by a swift craft knife. The bloodied clock that replaced her heart was exposed, incessantly ticking. The arteries that had previously been connected to her heart were glued to the clock, the beginnings of them coated with copper, mechanising her.   
“She was not yet in rigour when he put her on the clock,” Will began slowly. “She was killed near the church. His work takes time, so he either lives or owns some property, or knows of some that is abandoned, near to the dump site. Somewhere he could kill her and do this without anyone noticing.”  
“Yes,” Purnell interrupted. “We know all this already, Mr. Graham.” Will looked at her, tempted to leave right now. But the killer wouldn’t stop, not without being caught.   
“He’s getting there,” said Jimmy finally.   
“Thank you,” Will replied. “As I was saying, he lives near the church. He has access to clocks, obviously, so he either works somewhere where he can steal them, or he will be recognised by the number he has bought recently. He also has access to some form of platform, some way to get up to the church, or its possible he has a partner who does.”  
“A partner?”   
“Yes. Dead weight is heavy. He must either be strong enough to lift her onto the clock, or he has someone to help him.”  
“Why the clocks?”  
“I think he’s dying. Check hospital records; someone was diagnosed with a fatal illness not long before the first body, maybe even same day. Probably an illness of the heart, but not necessarily. His time is running out, and he knows it.”  
Will stopped suddenly, realisation slapping him in the face.   
“No,” he said softly. “Not him. It’s a loved one. The bodies are so varied because he’s trying to save someone else. A daughter or sister or mother, maybe. Check for that. Jimmy, can you carefully remove the arteries from the copper?”  
“Yup, why?”  
“It’s a disguise. Look how clumsily he seals them back up again - he doesn’t care how neat the stitches are; they’re dead, unimportant. But I bet the heart has been removed so carefully. He’s practicing. Has to make sure when he removes it, he does it in such a way that it can be put back in her - whoever she is. Check hospitals to see if anyone has had a fresh, warm heart dumped into their ambulance bay. He’s getting better.”  
“Is he a doctor or a surgeon then?” Purnell asked.  
“No. He’s not good at this, he’s learning. Probably a mechanic - he wants to fix her using a machine - the clock; this is the way he knows how to fix things.”  
“So we’re looking for a mechanic or similar with a dying relative, who lives in the area?”  
“Almost certainly.”

When Chilton opened the door, Will thrust the bottle of wine into his hands, immediately taking a seat on the sofa and spewing forth a description of the victim.   
“Will,” Chilton started. Will paused, glancing up at him. The older man looked pale, standing awkwardly by the entrance to the lounge.  
“Yes?”  
“I’m sorry, but you can’t do that. I’m not Hannibal, Will. I’m not your psychiatrist. I warned you not to go back, pleaded with you not to help out on this case but you’re doing it anyway. I’m happy to be your friend, happy to be here for you, but not with this stuff. I’ve had enough horror to last me a lifetime.”  
Will frowned. “But you’re going back to work eventually, right?”  
“I don’t know.”  
He was supposed to be the empathetic one, and yet somehow he’d totally missed the pain so clearly written across Chilton’s face. He was not doing well, Will could see that now; unkempt, unshaved, dressed in sloppy clothes that Will would never have guessed he even owned, before. The white bandage unnecessarily adorned his face, despite the fact that the doctor had probably not left the house today - it wasn’t Chilton trying to present his best to the world, it was an attempt to hide from his own reality. Guilt flooded through Will’s veins. He’d been selfish, assuming he was the only one damaged by Hannibal. He should visit Alana, be there for her too. Had she had someone there for her when she woke up? Will honestly didn’t know.   
He stood, slowly, crossing the room to where Chilton stood. Carefully, he pulled the bottle of wine out of the older man’s hand, and closed the distance between them, drawing Chilton into a hug. At first, he resisted, pulling away from Will’s embrace. Will just hugged him tighter, feeling the shorter man eventually relax, sagging into the hug. His body shook, silent tears streaming down his cheeks and over the white padding that adorned his face.   
Slowly and gently, Will rubbed Chilton’s back, waiting for the tears to dry. Eventually, they did, and Chilton drew back, his face flushed, wiping at his eyes.  
“Thank you,” Chilton whispered. “You should probably go.”  
“Are you going to be okay? I’ve already been past mine and fed the dogs, so I can stay if you like. You seem in need of company.”  
“I…”  
“Shall I order pizza for dinner?”  
Chilton chuckled slightly. “I haven’t had pizza in years.”  
“Here, you pour the wine.”

Will didn’t really like movies, so he wasn’t entirely sure why he kept agreeing to watch them. He would much rather have been perusing a fishing book, or reading a fantasy novel, but here they were. He didn’t even know what it was about. But the wine was good, the pizza was better and he felt strangely comfortable, enjoying the quiet presence of another human. He was surprised at himself, unsure why he had felt the need to show up at Chilton’s house that night, when they’d agreed on Friday, but he was glad he had. They were seated on the couch together this time, and Chilton seemed happier than before, the red gone from his eyes. He still desperately needed to trim that beard, thought Will, and he wished he’d take the bandage off; it was unsightly and the scar was, well, relatively handsome actually. Made his features more homely, less… stuck up. Will could scarcely believe the man next to him was the same one that ran the Baltimore Institute for the Criminally insane. This one had one foot on the couch, leaning back into the sofa in a way that Hannibal would’ve hated, if Chilton had ever been this comfortable around him. At least he wasn’t in his dressing gown, Will thought. He was actually rather attractive, come to think about it, his greenish grey eyes having regained their spark.   
“Will?”  
“Hmm? Sorry, what?”  
“You were staring at me.”  
“Oh, was I? Sorry.”  
“What were you thinking?”  
“Just that you really don’t need to wear that bandage anymore.”  
“It hides the scar, Will.” Chilton fiddled with the edge of his jumper, staring into his lap.   
“I don’t mind the scar,” he replied. “We all have them.”  
Chilton glanced up, meeting his eyes briefly - and Will looked away, back at the TV.  
“Sorry for staring,” he added.   
“It’s okay. I’ve got icecream, if you want some dessert?”  
“Please,” Will replied, immediately questioning his response. He really didn’t like desserts very much. But it was polite, he knew; Hannibal had taught him well.


	5. Frederick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some cuddling...

Chapter Five: Frederick

Frederick started awake. The lights were all out, the TV screen blurting an endless loop of the DVD’s title screen. His back hurt from lying squished up against the couch, and he looked down to find Will asleep against his chest. A lump sprang up into his throat; he wasn’t sure what to do from here. Should he wake Will? He desperately needed to move but… but a part of him didn’t want Will gone. And he knew if he woke the younger man, there would be a brief moment of awkwardness before he either left or retired to the guest room. The warmth of his head was comforting, somehow, and more than anything Frederick wanted to touch him, run his fingers through those messy curls. But he couldn’t and shouldn’t. It wasn’t fair on either of them.   
“Will?” he whispered softly.   
“Mmm what? What’s going on?”   
Will rubbed a hand across his eyes and sat up; Frederick sighed in relief, the awkwardness avoided.  
“We fell asleep on the couch,” he continued, watching Will yawn sleepily like a puppy, stretching his arms high above his head.   
“Shit. I should probably go home.”  
“You can stay, I just thought maybe the couch wasn’t the best place.”  
Will opened his eyes and groaned. “I wasn’t lying on you, was I? I’m not sure what happened.”  
“It’s okay,” Frederick replied. “Neither am I.”   
“Good,” Will muttered. “Good. Where are my keys?”   
“You’re too sleepy to drive, Will.”  
Will ran a hand through his hair and Frederick felt that lump rise in his throat again. Damn it. He definitely shouldn’t have woken him, it wasn’t worth it to have to climb into his bed alone again.  
“I’m fine. What time is it? I haven’t slept this well in forever.”  
Smiling to himself, Frederick glanced at his watch. “Three in the morning.”  
“Shit, seriously?” Suddenly Will was staring at him wide-eyed, and Frederick found himself blushing, despite his attempts to control it.  
“Seriously.”  
“Well, you were a very comfortable pillow, then. I’m going to go, and I’ll see you on Friday, okay?”  
“Okay.”  
Will stood, stretching again to reveal the slender outline of the bottom of his ribcage, and snatched his keys off the side table, disappearing out the front door. Frederick moved his hand, gently touching the warm spot that Will’s head had left. He sighed. Cold bed again for him tonight then.  
Unprovoked, and despite all Frederick’s attempts to stop it, he fell asleep thinking about those stupid puppy-dog curls. 

This time, Will kept his promise (much to Frederick’s disappointment) and it was Friday when he eventually knocked on Frederick’s door, sheepishly carrying a six-pack.  
“Sorry,” he said. “I really don’t like wine.”  
Grinning like a child, Frederick swung back, letting the younger man into his house. His heart raced as he watched Will move comfortably through into the kitchen, the muscles in his back moving gently under a plain white shirt as he swung the beer up, pushing it into the fridge. It wasn’t fair, thought Frederick; three days of thinking about Will to finally have him here again, and he couldn’t even play it cool enough to wipe this infatuated smile off his face. He was glad he had tidied up a bit though - trimmed his bed and put on a nice shirt and jumper instead of the old grey one he’d been wearing for three days straight. And the bags around his eyes seemed smaller, he thought.  
“How’ve you been?” Will asked, twisting the caps off two and passing Frederick one. He moved through into the lounge, slipping comfortably into the sofa and drawing his feet up.   
“Good, good,” Frederick replied, awkwardly perching beside Will. Fuck. Why couldn’t he just be normal?! Will laughed, immediately instigating a blush from his host in return.   
“What?” Even he could hear the panic in his own voice - surely Will wasn’t laughing at him?  
“Oh, I was just thinking how unhappy Hannibal would be that we were drinking these out of the bottle,” he replied. “It’s the little things. I’m glad to see you’re not wearing the patch today.”  
Frederick’s hand rose to his cheek instinctively.   
“You said you didn’t like it,” could he possibly be more obvious? Calm. The Fuck. Down.  
“I don’t,” Will replied. “It’s much better. Are you okay? You seem a little jumpy.”  
“Yeah, I’m… I’m fine. How are you?”  
“Good. Did you hear we solved the case?”  
“No?”  
“Yeah they arrested him. One Mr Michael Washington; he was a factory worker with a daughter who was going to die of heart disease. Oh shit, sorry. You didn’t want to talk about work.”  
“Work? So it’s permanent?”  
“Yes. I’m back as a consultant.”  
“Are you still teaching?”  
“I will be. I start back next semester because they hired a replacement when I was in hospital. I said she should just work out the semester, because it seemed fairer.”  
“Oh,” Frederick replied, easing more into the seat, unsure of what to do with any of his limbs. They were all being so awkward. Surely sitting hadn’t been this hard before. “And Will, I don’t mind this sort of work chat, I just don’t want to know the gory details.”  
“Okay,” he replied gently. “I’m sure I can remember. I take it you’re not going back to work then?”  
“I don’t know. I’d like to, but I don’t know if I’m strong enough anymore.”  
Will reached forward and put a hand on Frederick’s knee. He looked at it, feeling short of breath. Fuck.   
“Yes, you are,” Will said softly, meeting his eyes for once. Fuck shit. Frederick broke away from his gaze, fixating on his hand. There was no denying it now, as much as he’d tried to convince himself he’d only wanted a friend, this was no longer all he wanted from the attractive man sitting opposite him. Will withdrew his hand, leaning back into the couch. For someone with an empathy disorder, he sure did look oblivious. Was he actually, Frederick wondered, or was he just pretending not to notice to be polite? Either way, he was thankful for it.  
“Another movie?” Frederick asked nervously, keen to break the silence.  
“Actually, Chilton, I have to confess something. I really don’t enjoy movies. Maybe we could play chess or something?”

Will won twice, Frederick four times (of which he was grateful), although they were surprisingly well matched.   
“How’s Alana?” Frederick asked, as he moved through into the kitchen, starting to feel more comfortable again in Will’s presence.   
“Better,” he said. “I visited her yesterday, and she’s okay, all things considered.” Frederick felt his heart sink, immediately feeling guilty. Of course he wanted Alana to be well.   
“They’re letting her out of the hospital tomorrow,” Will continued. “I’m going to stay with her for a bit, because she needs help getting out of bed and chairs. And Abigail is doing very well. She’s made a surprising recovery, and Freddie Lounds has offered to look after her for a bit, until things settle down.”  
“And you trust Freddie with her care?” Frederick asked, stirring mixed vegetables into a stir fry. “I know how much Abigail means to you.”  
“I do. Nothing about her was published in the newspaper - Freddie appears to have a soft spot for her as well.”  
“Will, do you think you’ll want her to eventually live with you?”  
“I don’t have the room. But maybe.”  
Frederick fell silence, and Will crossed to stand next to him, watching him stir.   
“Smells good,” he said.  
“One can grow to love beets,” he replied. “Will, has Alana seen Abigail since…?”  
“No. But she’s going to be fine. She understands Abigail is just as much a victim as she is.”  
“Just like Mirriam.”  
“You’ll be fine.”

They had finished dinner and polished off the last of the beers between them, when Will stood, placing the last empty on the table before him.  
“Thanks for the pleasant evening,” he smiled. “I’m going to head home now. But catch you Tuesday for group? I’ll bring everyone over?”  
“Sounds good,” Frederick managed a smile. He wished it were just Will, but at least he was coming over again.   
“Good night, Frederick,” Will called as he closed the door behind him, whispering away into the night.   
Frederick.


	6. A Letter From Lecter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will looks after Alana, they discover a new body, and have the first group therapy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a lot happens here and not much Chillywilly. Sorry. I'll make up for it in the next chapter I promise

Chapter Six: Will

I press my hands on his neck, watching his eyes bulge as I squeeze his last breath from him. He knows the reason for his death; this is the last thought that goes through his mind. I take his body to the sea, it is a long drive but it is necessary. I position his body on the rock, and dress it with death. In his death he has become the king of the ocean. This is my design.

The body before him was blue, at least twenty-four hours old according to the coroner. Seaweed was sewn into his flesh from the waist down, forming a tail-like structure. He was positioned like a mermaid, his emptied eyes staring out into the sea. A crown of pearls replaced the top of his skull, his brain removed and cranial cavity filled with sand. Each of his fingers had been torn off, replaced with the limbs of starfish. Blood stains down the rockface marked that this particular mutilation had occurred here. A mussel had been inserted forcefully between his teeth, its shell bared and holding his lips ajar. It was grotesque, thought Will, but it was art too. He understood it in a way that made him shudder, reminding him of what he’d done to Randall Tier.  
“He wanted to shame the victim,” Purnell muttered, appearing at his shoulder. “By disfiguring him this much. Nothing more than a fish.”  
“Quite the opposite,” Will replied curtly. “This is art. He honoured this man, respected him.”  
“How can you say that? His fingers are removed, eyes and brain cut out.”  
“And his teeth disfigured by the shellfish, all so we have trouble identifying the body. You only go to this much trouble to hide a victim’s identity if you knew the victim. Our killer definitely knew the victim. Check for any fishermen, or other people who work in sea-related jobs who might have gone missing recently. And look into their friends, relatives, colleagues. This is not a first-timer.”

Alana was exhausted by the time he got her home - her home - from the hospital. A day of physical therapy and she had had more than enough. With his help, they climbed the stairs and he tucked her into the bed.  
“Thank you, Will,” she murmured. “Would you… would you stay a bit?”  
“Of course,” he replied, “let me get a chair.”  
“Will?” she said quietly, when he’d returned to her side. He nodded, meeting her eyes briefly before drawing away.  
“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry…” she broke off, tears rolling down her cheeks as she sobbed silently. “I was so wrong. So wrong.”  
“I know,” he said, touching her hand lightly. “But it’s done now. We survived him.”  
“Jack didn’t.”  
“That wasn’t your fault.”  
“Maybe if I’d worked it out sooner, I could’ve…”  
“He would’ve killed you if you’d worked it out, Alana. You were only useful to him as an alibi. He would’ve disposed of you as elegantly as he did Beverly. He let you survive because you were blind.”  
“You weren’t, and you survived.”  
“Hannibal thought he was making me into himself. Turning me into a monster. When he discovered I was playing him, he put a knife in my gut.” Will said, bluntly. Alana looked at him, tears splotching her face red. Will missed her, he realised. Missed her warmth and happiness. He hoped that wasn’t gone forever.  
“Why was Abigail alive?” she asked eventually, breaking the silence.  
“She was a present,” he replied, hearing his own voice catch. “For me.”  
“You were supposed to go with him,” realisation dawned across her features.  
“I thought we could get him. I thought we could win.”  
“But Agent Purnell pulled the FBI from the case.”  
“Yes. And we lost.”  
Alana nodded, and reached out for Will’s hand. He let her take it, following it’s path back to her side.  
“Are you sure group on Tuesday is a good idea?”  
“Yes,” Will replied. “Trust me on this one.”  
She nodded, closing her eyes. Tuesday was the perfect day - group, and then Alana was back in hospital for the night, and he could pick her up again Wednesday. They wanted her to make weekly visits for a while, so they could observe her at night and then run her through physical therapy the next day. It made sense, Will thought, to have her emotionally stable the day before. 

The ringing of his phone interrupted his thoughts, and he yanked it out of his pocket quickly, unlocking it as he walked away from Alana, trying not to wake her.  
“Will?”  
“Margot?” he was surprised. It had been a long time since he’d heard from her.  
“Yes. How are you doing? I hear you’re out of hospital?”  
“Yes, thanks. You?”  
“Good. Dear Mason has been a pleasure to take care of.”  
“Well, that’s something.”  
“It is, isn’t it? Anyway. A little red-headed birdy may have told me you were having a group therapy session on Tuesday, and I was wondering if I may join you?”  
“Well, it’s for survivors of Dr. Lecter, Margot, which, technically, you aren’t.”  
“My brother is, Will. Although I thought I might attend in his place. Unless you really believe he slipped and fell into the pig pen.”  
“Why do you want to come, Margot?”  
“Honestly? I would like to escape the company of my brother for the night, for want of something more, uh, pleasant. Is there a reason you want me not there?”  
“None that I can think of,” he said. “Here’s the address.”  
He’d barely hung up the phone when it vibrated again in his hand. Sighing, he peeled it open.  
“What?”  
“We need you to come back in. They found something interesting in the autopsy.”  
“Was it a trident?”  
“What? How did you…?”  
“God of the Sea. Where and what was it?”  
“It was engraved in the back of his thigh, just below the first line of seaweed.”  
“Okay.”  
“Okay, what…? What does it mean?”  
“It means there will be more bodies,” said Will and hung up the phone.

Will awoke, unsure of where he was. He’d fallen asleep on the couch, but it wasn’t Chiton’s, and it took him a while to recognise his surroundings. Alana. Rubbing sleep out of his eyes, he stood - still fully dressed - and crept up the stairs. She was asleep still, lying awkwardly flat on her back. He closed the door gently, and checked his watch. 6am. He could probably make it home to feed the dogs and back before she awoke.  
And then what? he thought. He cursed himself silently for thinking looking after her would be a good idea - now he had to spend the day, while she felt sorry for herself in bed - tiptoeing around, unable to do anything in case she needed him. And Monday. And Tuesday, until the group session and he could take her back to the hospital. He knew why he’d volunteered, of course. He felt guilty, guilty for keeping her in the dark, for pushing her away. But she had abandoned him. She had rejected him and flown straight into the arms of Hannibal the Cannibal. He had no reason to feel guilty, so perhaps the guilt he was feeling was not his own, but hers.  
Hannibal wouldn’t have liked it, of course. Wouldn’t have liked that his damage was driving them all closer, removing the isolation he’d created for Will. Perhaps that was the real reason Will was here.  
On the plus side, he’d managed to fill in plenty of time with only Chilton’s company, so surely it wouldn’t be too awkward with Alana. Surely.  
Will was running slightly late by the time he padded up his drive and unlocked the door. Pawprints covered the four letters that had been shoved through the letterbox, and Will gingerly picked them up, brushing off dirt. At least they hadn’t been eaten this time, he thought. Junk, junk, bill… the last one was addressed to him in handwritten calligraphy. Perching on the side of his couch, one hand resting on Winston’s head, he slid it open, discarding the envelope and unfolding its contents.  
My dearest Will, it read - he skimmed quickly to the bottom, checking what he already knew to be true - love, Hannibal.  
Shit. Will sprang to his feet, fetching a plastic bag from the kitchen. He tossed the letter and its envelope inside, hitching the phone off its hanger on the wall with his free hand.  
“Purnell? It’s Will Graham. I have a letter from Hannibal.”

“You can go home, Will,” Jimmy Price looked at him out the corner of his eye. Will was pacing up and down the length of their lab, and had been since he got there. Nervously, he ran his hand through his hair again, sure that if it had looked okay at any point that morning, it surely didn’t now.  
“But…”  
“I’ll call you personally when we know something,” Jimmy assured him. Will cursed himself yet again. He should’ve read what it had said. The clue would be in the words, not the paper. Not the ink, or the postage. There would be no DNA, no trace except what Will had left on it. If only he’d read it, then he could work it out.  
“The scent…” Will muttered suddenly, spinning mid-stride to face the lab techs, mouth dropping open. “Hannibal was all about smell,” he said. “That’s where the clue will be.”  
“Well, how do you suggest we…?”  
“Don’t destroy it all with chemicals. Find someone. I’m sure Jack had a specialist for this sort of thing. Find someone who can tell us what the paper was perfumed with. That will be the best clue for where he is.”

 

 

AIt was nearly five, and they were going to be late to Chilton’s - Will’s fault, of course. He’d insisted on stopping past his to feed the dogs on the way to pick Abigail up from Freddie’s. The ginger opened the door, pursing her lips at him.  
“Mr. Graham,” she said. “Abigail’s inside, come in.”  
Following her lead, he waited nervously in the lounge while Abigail finished getting ready. Since Hannibal’s escape, Freddie had bought a place in Baltimore, hoping to stay close to any leads on Dr. Lecter’s whereabouts. Will kept his mouth shut, despite her desperate questions - she wouldn’t find out about the letter until he was ready, and for now, they knew nothing. Both the paper and the envelope were easily sourced globally, and Purnell was still trying to track someone to figure out if there was a clue in the smell. The head of the FBI refused to let Will read it until they’d cleared it through all processing, so he still had no idea what it said.  
“So you really have nothing to tell me?” Freddie tried again, but Will only shook his head and shrugged, checking the time. They really were going to be quite late. Hannibal the Cannibal, Chilton had said, but it was only Freddie who called him that.  
“I’m ready,” Abigail popped her head through into the room. She was dressed plainly, in clothes that resembled Alana more than Freddie, the three scars on her neck clearly visible. Will smiled, fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve as he let the responsibility and guilt over those three lines wash over him. Each one was like a mark of his failure to protect her, first from her father, and then from Hannibal. Twice. As if anyone else coming this evening had but a whisper on Abigail’s survival. Holding her head high, as usual, she floated into the back seat of the car, Will bumbling into the driver’s seat.  
“Hi,” Abigail said gently. To her credit, Alana’s smile seemed genuine.  
“Hi Abigail, how are you?”  
“I’m… good. Thanks. How are you?”  
“I’m good. Getting better.”  
“Sorry for pushing you out the window.” Her bluntness startled the two in the front seat, and Will glanced at her in the rear vision mirror.  
“That’s okay, I understand why you did it.”  
“I don’t,” she replied.  
Alana looked at Will for help, out of the corner of her eye as her neck still didn’t bend in that direction. He shrugged - she was the psychiatrist. 

Margot was already there by the time they arrived, prowling around Chilton’s lounge with a tumbler of whisky in hand. He looked nearly beside himself, hobbling awkwardly around her, trying to straighten already very straight paintings and furniture.  
“Will, dear,” she placed the tumbler on the table, pulling him into an embrace he hadn’t been expecting. “Lovely to see you,”  
A kiss on the cheek, and she released him. Everyone appeared to be staring, and he blushed red muttering a hello and immediately sinking into a chair.  
“You must be Alana,” she said, extending a hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Margot Verger,”  
“I thought this was a meeting for Hannibal’s victims, Margot.” Alana replied curtly, glancing at Will.  
“It is,” Margot smiled. “But my dear brother couldn’t attend, unfortunately. He’s rather, well, incapable of a lot of things lately.”  
“He told Jack that Hannibal wasn’t responsible for that,” Alana replied.  
“Well, you know how it is,” Margot waved a hand. “People only ever say what is convenient for them.” Alana frowned, which turned into a pointed glare in Will’s direction. He sprang to his feet immediately, helping her into the chair. Margot watched them, her head cocked.  
“And you must be Abigail Hobbs,” she said.  
“How did…?”  
“I know a lot of things, Miss Hobbs. Pleased to meet you.”  
“Um, sorry to interrupt,” Chilton piped up, floating awkwardly by the edge of the sofa. “Can I get anyone a drink, or… something…?”  
“No, thank you.” Alana replied, staring at Margot with a hand firmly planted on Will’s knee. Will glanced up from it, unsure of what exactly Alana was trying to do and caught Chilton’s gaze. Blushing, the doctor stared pointedly at Abigail.  
“Anything for you?”  
“Do you have orange juice?” she asked.  
“Yes, certainly. Will?”  
Will jumped up, eager to remove Alana’s hand - it made him feel, well, uncomfortable for some reason. Which was strange, because he could still remember a time when he would’ve given anything to have her touch him like that.  
“I’ll help,” he said, “since it was my idea to have everyone here.”  
Abigail immediately stole his seat, for which Will found himself quite grateful. Even if Alana did look slightly more on edge. Margot took a chair opposite, seeming very regal as she tilted her head and began questioning the pair.  
“Will, I’m quite capable of doing this myself,” Chilton mumbled, once they were alone in the kitchen.  
“Look, I just wanted to apologise,” Will said quickly, laying a hand on the benchtop beside the doctor and trapping him into the corner. “I don’t know what that was about. Alana is… I’m… we’re…” he stuttered, somehow suddenly unable to find the words. What was he apologising for anyway? Why should Chilton care what he and Alana were or were not? Perhaps he was being overly presumptuous in assuming an apology was needed.  
“It’s fine. Let me out, please, so I can get the orange juice.”  
“I just… it’s not appropriate behaviour for someone else’s house.” Will finished weakly.  
“It’s fine, Will. It’s none of my business.” Chilton edged out around him, snatching the juice out of the fridge.  
“There’s wine, or whisky. No beer, sorry,” Chilton told him, overly-politely. “Help yourself.”  
When Will returned to the lounge, whisky in hand, Chilton had nestled firmly into a single chair, talking comfortably with Abigail. The doorbell rang, and because he was still standing, Will moved to open it.  
“Hi, Will,”  
“Merriam, come in,” he grinned. “Can I get you a drink of something?”  
“Is there wine?”  
Chilton glanced up, nervous, as Merriam and Will entered the lounge, taking the remaining seats on the couch. Bravely, he excused himself from conversations with Abigail, and came to stand by Merriam’s side. In an attempt to hold himself in a dignified way, Chilton only succeeded in looking as awkward as he felt.  
“Hi,” she said, staring into the wine glass. Will found himself shivering at how much it resembled blood, dark and pooling.  
“Hi, Merriam,” he tried to make his voice strong, confident. She shuddered; Hannibal’s brainwashing still overriding her common-sense.  
“Look, I know now you’re not the Chesapeake Ripper,” she told him, barely louder than a whisper. “And I’m sorry for shooting you. But I… you sound like him still.”  
“Dr. Lecter did what he did well,” Chilton replied, gaining courage from the fact that she was as terrified of him as he was of her. “And I forgive you. Comparatively, my scars are not as great as yours.”  
She looked up at him, tears welling in her eyes, “I’m so sorry.”  
Bending down carefully, he reached his arms out, pulling her into a gentle hug.  
“It’s okay, Merriam, everything is going to be okay.”


	7. It's Raining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which life gets a little heated to make up for previous chapter

Chapter Seven: Frederick

Frederick finished putting the dishes in the dishwasher and leaned forward over the counter, pressing his fingers into his temples. It was raining quite hard, and the steady droplets seemed natures accompaniment to the agonising thoughts that wound through his head. Why the hell did he care so much? It was silly, really. Alana had fawned all over Will all night, despite Will’s attempts to stay polite in front of everyone, and the intimacy between the pair was very clear. And he knew that, knew that they’d been somewhat of an item before that, should’ve known that with Hannibal out of the picture they’d immediately be together again. He’d briefly mentioned it to Margot, and she had laughed.  
“Oh, I understand now,” she had whispered, grinning. “She knows that I slept with him, and has the common decency to be jealous. Very amusing!”  
Well, it was very clear where Will’s attractions lay now. Frederick felt foolish. It was a feeling he hated more than anything else in the world - he had made a fool of himself and Will had recognised it enough to attempt to rectify the situation, the sweet boy that he was. Frederick sighed; it was no wonder he was alone, really. He kept having unattainable goals, although that was a character flaw, he knew, that went beyond romantic interactions. A part of him thought that maybe, just maybe, with Dr. Lecter out of the picture, he could be seen for the quality psychiatrist he actually was. Although he knew that meant that ultimately, he would have to go back to the Hospital. After tonight, though, he realised maybe he was brave enough to do that.   
Will had been right, of course, the group session had been good for everyone, not least Merriam Lass and himself. He felt… well, better. About everything. If he could face her, and he had faced Gideon, then maybe he was brave enough to go back. Maybe he was braver than he thought.  
It had been humbling, too. Of everyone in that room, he was perhaps the least affected by Hannibal Lecter - except, of course, for Margot who, at least as far as Frederick had gathered, had been entirely advantaged by Dr. Lecter’s actions. Everyone else had lost something far greater - Will a friend, Abigail a(nother) father, Alana a lover and Merriam, well, she had lost two years of her life and an arm. 

A knocking interrupted Frederick’s thoughts and he frowned, wondering what could have been forgotten. Curious, he opened the door to find Will dripping wet on his doorstep.   
“Will? What…?”  
“Can I come in?” he asked, shivering. Frederick wished he could say no, knew that letting this man into his house now was only going to cause more damage. But as much as he wished it, he couldn’t say no to the sad creature that stood before him, arms wrapped around himself to keep warm. So instead, Frederick stepped back from the doorway.  
“Close the door behind you,” he ordered, trying to regain control. “And for god’s sake, stay there. I’m going to get a towel.”  
Obediently, Will stayed, Frederick returning to wrap the biggest one he could find around him.   
“How in the world did you get so wet, Mr. Graham?” Frederick asked, observing him from a safe distance.  
“I parked my car at the bottom of the drive,” he shivered, pressing his face into the plush white of the towel. “Figured you wouldn’t be pleased if I muddied up the drive.”  
“So you thought dripping all over my floor would be preferable?” snapped Frederick, immediately feeling guilty for the harshness of his words. It wasn’t Will’s fault, he reminded himself, you’re the one who developed a crush.  
“Sorry…” he replied, gazing up at Frederick with puppy-dog eyes.   
“Would you like a cup of tea or something,” Frederick asked, staring at his feet. “And you can tell me why you’re here.”  
“Please.”  
Frederick stormed off into the kitchen, feigning anger. If it had been anyone else, that would’ve been the appropriate response, of course, but deep down he was please. Will could’ve been anywhere, but he’d come back here. Almost certainly there was a proper reason for it, a real reason, but somewhere inside his stomach flickered the hope that Will was here to return his feelings. Frederick grinned into the teapot, waiting for the jug to boil.  
“I’m here to explain,” a deep voice murmured behind him, and Frederick whirled to find Will blocking off any exit, staring straight at him with an intensity he was unused to. Will was so good at avoiding eye contact, it was strangely arousing that he now refused to look anywhere else. Frederick felt his heart jolt in his chest.   
“I… I don’t know where to start. Look. Alana and I are not, and we never will be a couple. While that might have been what I wanted - what she wanted, a long time ago, it is no longer what I want, Chi - Frederick,” Will started. Frederick felt a shiver run down his spine at the use of his first name, but he said nothing, hoping his anticipation would be worth it. Will was nervous, he could tell, struggling to keep eye contact.   
“I spoke to her in the car. Yes, she still has feelings for me, which explains her behaviour tonight. I… well. You know the half of it already - I have an empathy disorder. I find myself often returning other people’s feelings. I have never been attracted to someone who wasn’t attracted to me. But in trying to catch Hannibal, I had to learn to control it and not let it control me. I don’t know how much you saw, but he was fiercely possessive of me, and with that came an intense, well, sexual attraction. I know what it was because I felt it too. But for the first time, I felt betrayed by him as well; I had my own feelings which contradicted those I was adopting from him. I had to choose. So I played the game, but at the same time I learnt to distance myself from those feelings. I’m not sure why I’m telling you this, but the point is that, while I can feel Alana’s attraction, I choose not to feel that way. I can, and for as long as she does, it will be present, but she made her choice and I will not be the back-up option.” He paused, and stared fixatedly down at his shoes before forcing his eyes back up to meet Frederick’s. Feeling his heart sink, Frederick waited for the jug to stop boiling, waited for Will to keep talking. He didn’t.  
“Will,” he finally said, disappointment burning behind his eyes. “I don’t see why this is really any of my business.”  
Will frowned, taking a step closer, filling in Frederick’s personal space.  
“Because I choose you,” he said, and gently leaned forward to close the gap. His mouth was soft, so much softer than Frederick had imagined, and he kissed back without even realising it, swept up in the giddiness of the contact. His heart pounded in his chest and he longed to reach forward and pull Will closer, to feel the warmth of his body pressed against him. Will’s kisses deepened, his stubble scratching slightly at Frederick’s mouth, his tongue gently insistent against Frederick’s own. Will closed the gap for him, moving his hands over his shoulders and sliding his body up against him. Frederick sighed into the embrace, his brain on fire as he tried to work out what he could possibly have done to deserve this beautiful boy.   
And just as suddenly as it had started, Frederick was made painfully aware of why he couldn’t. Will’s groin stiffened, pushing firm into Frederick’s upper thigh. Startled, he yanked back, pushing Will away with unnecessary strength. Will tripped over the towel, falling hard onto his backside. Hurt, his eyes flicked up to Frederick, confused.   
“You have to go,” Frederick said, feeling his throat lump as he turned away.   
“But… I…”  
“Get the fuck out of my house.”   
Will scrambled to his feet, startled by the anger in his words and fled, leaving the towel sprawled across the kitchen floor. Frederick watched him go, waiting until the door had slammed shut to slide down the counter to the ground, the tears rolling freely from his cheeks.   
Why couldn’t Will just not have liked me back, he thought, feeling the shock of the encounter ebb away, to be replaced by the familiar tide of despair. When he’d been younger, Frederick had been able to hide behind the term, behind the clinical definition of asexuality. He’d even met others, and dated a few - safe, knowing they only wanted as much as he did. But Frederick only ever wanted things outside of his grasp, and lately, falling for heterosexual men or homosexual women had been all he seemed capable of.   
Damn it, Frederick thought. This is why it’s supposed to be slow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry... I will make it up to both of them I promise!


	8. Letter from Hannibal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Hannigram in this one...

Chapter Eight: Will

Will groaned and rolled back over. He’d been dreaming of Chilton - Frederick, he corrected - the salty way he’d tasted. The way he’d collapsed into Will’s embrace, hungry but gentle. Quite different to Alana’s kisses, and exactly the opposite of how he’d imagined Hannibal. Will shuddered and sat up, blinking to adjust his eyes to the light of the lamp. Winston poked his nose over the edge of the bed, tail wagging, and Will reached down to scratch his belly.   
Was it possible he had misread the signs, he wondered? Possible that his feelings for Chil- Frederick were solely his own, for once? Will sighed, scootching the dog out of the way and climbing out of bed. At least he’d done the right thing with Alana, although he did feel slightly guilty for misleading her.   
She’d kissed him as he was helping her into the hospital, and as he drew gently away he could see the desperate need for human contact that lingered behind her eyes.   
“I’m not good for you, remember,” he said gently, and she glanced away.  
“Margot?” she eventually asked, her voice barely audible over their clumsy footsteps.  
“That’s not important,” he replied, feeling his words burn like a lie. She would read that as a yes, he knew, but he was hesitant to tell her it was someone else he was dreaming of at night. “What’s important, Alana, is that when you said we would not be good for each other, that was the truth. And I know you feel like you need this, like you need me. But for once, I have to do something for me and not for anyone else, and right now I need you to stay just as a friend.”  
She’d be fine, he knew, but there was once upon a time he would’ve given anything to be with her, and it was hard now to break her heart the same way she’d broken his.   
Frederick was a different story.   
He’d got something wrong, that was certain - the panic that flitted across the older man’s eyes as he forced Will away was not something he had anticipated - something Will couldn’t quite wrap his head around. And it wasn’t that he’d misinterpreted the doctor’s signals, the intensity in which his kiss was returned more than supported that. But what?  
Will was about to step into the shower when the buzzing of his phone intruded into his thoughts.  
“Will Graham,” he muttered, half hoping it was Frederick on the other end of the line.  
“Purnell. We have a new crime scene, how quickly can you get there?”

I gently suffocate her by pressing a pillow over her face. She feels gratitude as the last remnants of her life ease free from her body. The other three are not so lucky, but she does not know about them, about what my honouring of her will do to them. I sever two of their necks, removing their heads while they still breathe, fear the last emotion they will experience. The third I crush his windpipe, watching the horror in his eyes as he finds he can no longer breathe. They are my tribute to her. This is my design.

A cloak of skin covered her naked form, as she stood blue and lifeless on a tombstone in the centre of the cemetery. The skullcap of one of the male victims before her adorned her head like a crown, and two old golden coins were sewn into her eye sockets. At her feet, the body of one man was crouched, naked on the grass, heads of two more men attached to his shoulders. All three were missing the tops of their skulls, their brains exposed to the world, and thin lines of blood rolling down their cheeks. 

“Mr. Graham? Will?”  
“Sorry what?” he drew his eyes free from the scene before him to face Agent Purnell.  
“What do you think?”  
“Well. This is the same killer as our other victim - the one on the beach. Did you find out who the body was?”  
“Not yet. Why do you think it’s the same, this is completely...”  
“Both the previous victim and the woman here he cared for. Check hospital records for her - I suspect she had an incurable illness, cancer maybe. The three-headed man at her feet will be harder to find, but all five victims knew the killer - the woman here and the man at the other crime scene were close to him; friends, relatives, lovers. The three at her feet were not, they were people he despised. If you can find out who they are, it’s likely they upset him in some way - maybe a bank teller who denied him - or perhaps this woman - a loan. That sort of thing.”  
“But, Mr. Graham, why do you think they are connected?”  
“The last victim was Poseidon, God of the Sea. And this one is Hades - or perhaps Persephone - God of the dead.”  
Will started off back to his car, but Purnell stopped him, a light hand on his arm.   
“You’ll want to come back to the lab first,” she said. “We’ve got some information on the letter.”

“They said the letter smelt of handcream, with a raw ambergris base, tennessee lavender and a trace of fleece.”  
“Ambergris?” Will replied, looking at Jimmy.  
“It’s a whale product,” Brian informed him.  
“Well, where would he get that,”  
“Japan,” Purnell replied. “Obviously. We’ve contacted the embassy now, trying to get information if anyone matching Lecter’s description has been through immigration.”  
“Not Japan,” Will replied.  
“Yes, Japan.” She pursed her lips at him, looking fed up.  
“No. He’s not in Japan. Where else could he get it?”  
“Paris,” replied Jimmy. “Rome, Amsterdam.”  
“Maybe London,” Brian added.   
“Dr. Lecter was lavish and personal,” Will replied. “This scent will have been custom-made. Is there any way we can find out what shops would do that, that also stock these ingredients? Try Rome and Paris first.”  
“I can do that,” Brian grinned. “I’ll get you a list.”  
“It’ll be short,” Jimmy added.

Will held the letter gingerly in one hand. Not for preservation of the evidence though, it had been cleared by techs and was fine for him to touch - through it’s was plastic wrapping, of course. No, he held it delicately because there was something comforting about the elegant slope of the familiar writing, of the care that the hand that had shaped each individual letter had taken in doing so. Will felt his heart catch; he could do with the warm comfort of Hannibal’s office now, of the doctor’s endearing gaze on him as he let go of what was bothering him. Of who was bothering him, rather. It hadn’t been a healthy relationship, Will knew - Lecter was controlling and possessive of him, and, of course, the fact that he was a serial killer. But with his absence Will had come to realise how much Hannibal had meant to him, how much he relied on his offhanded guidance and perceptive intelligence. It was strange not having him here, and it sunk in how lonely Will now felt.   
‘My dearest Will,’ it began. ‘I was glad to hear of your remarkable recovery from our encounter. The world is a better place with you in it, as disappointed as I am that you did not share my intentions. I am well, in case you were wondering. The weather is delightful here, and there are many more impressive symphonies to attend than I could find in Baltimore. There was a minor issue with the quality of the brass section, but I found an excellent recipe for liver which has drastically improved the orchestra’s sound.   
‘By the way, I couldn’t help noticing on the FBI’s rather dull public website, that I have been given a place on the prestigious 10 Most Wanted List. Am I correct in assuming that you are on the case? If so, goody goody, because I need to come out of retirement and return to public life.   
‘Your job is to craft my doom, so I am not sure how well I should wish you, but I’m sure we’ll have a lot of fun.   
‘With love, Hannibal.’

With shaking hands, he marched back into the lab, jabbing the letter at Purnell.  
“You’ve read this?”  
“I have,” she gazed at his anger with contempt.  
“So where has a brass-player from a prestigious orchestra gone missing? Surely that will be easier to track than… than bloody handcream.” Will stuttered, fuming. His anger was misplaced, he knew, but he knew if he wasn’t angry he’d be a wreck. ‘Love Hannibal’ repeated over and over in his head and he was hurt in a way he couldn’t let them see. Feelings for the deranged cannibal would only get him thrown off the case, and that wasn’t what he needed right now. He cursed himself for ruining things with Chilton, damnit - Frederick, because he was exactly the person he wanted to talk to about this right now.  
“What do you mean?”  
“It’s a cannibal pun - Lecter was fond of them, how the hell did you miss it? He ate a brass-player’s liver.”  
“He ate…?”  
“Yes. ‘Minor issue with the quality of the brass section… recipe for liver… improved the orchestra’. Even Frederick Chilton would’ve noticed this. Find the brass player, find the cannibal.”  
Turning on his heel, Will stormed out of the building.


	9. Tit for Tat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Chillywilly in this for everyone. In which Frederick has trouble concentrating

Chapter Nine: Frederick

It had been a week since the last Survivor’s meeting, and they’d agreed monthly was probably better than weekly, due to the strange mix of personalities. Frederick was glad; he was pretty sure he was beginning to heal from his encounter with Will, but there was no guarantee he wouldn’t spiral out of control again. It had achieved one thing, though - Frederick realised that he couldn’t sit around at home all day any more - negative thoughts always found a way to creep in through the gaps when there was nothing to do, and Frederick knew he had to be brave, had to go back to work. He stood in his office now, breathing in the familiarity of it. Since he’d been the head of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, Frederick estimated he’d spent more time at work than at home, and there was something comforting about the polished wood smell of his office. Easing himself down into his leather desk chair, he leaned the cane against his drawers and placed his hands gently on the spotless table before him, the fine-grain of the wood soothing his fingertips. Other than the cleaners, it appeared his office had not been touched since he left, for which Frederick was grateful.  
The phone on his desk beeped, and he picked it up, the plastic cold against his ear.  
“Chilton,”  
“Welcome back sir,” - one of the guards. Frederick smiled into the telephone.   
“Thank you, it’s good to be back.”  
“Yes, well, you might want to come and see this.”  
“I’ll be right down,” Frederick sighed. First day back, and already he was having to deal with his patient’s mess.

A tall, wiry figure wrapped greasy fingers around the bars, sunken eyes peering out at Frederick from behind a mess of curly hair.   
“Elaad Berkovich,” the guard said, pulling up a chair for his boss. “The clockwork killer.”  
“Hello, Mr. Berkovich,” Frederick said, running his fingers over the head of the cane. “How are you finding it here?”  
“It is better than a prison,” the man replied, pressing his face against the bars, “albeit only slightly.”   
Unable to help himself, Frederick scowled, initiating a broad grin across Berkovich’s face.  
“I hear you have only just returned to the hospital yourself, Dr. Chilton,” he continued. “Why would that be?”  
“I took some time off for personal reasons.”  
“You almost died,” he replied. “No use omitting the truth from me, Dr. For starters, everyone talks around here. More importantly, though, the bullet wound in your face is obvious even under this lighting. Your heart is fine, though, is it not?”  
Shit. How had Frederick not realised who this was - the killer Will had recently caught, responsible for trying to repair his… sister’s? daughter’s? heart, damnit Frederick, why hadn’t you listened. He had the back foot now, Frederick knew and it served him right for not reading the patient’s files before coming down.   
“If that is all, Mr. Berkovich…?” Frederick said, trying to stop his panic from being visible.   
“It is not, Dr. Chilton. I have some information you would find very, ah, useful.”  
“Spit it out then.”  
“Alas, I am no spitter, not like dear Miggs across the way. I’ve been informed ‘tit for tat’ is the phrase you like to use around here.”  
“Who said that?” Frederick’s heart rate rose - did he know about Will…?  
“Let’s just say a little birdie told me about a favourite patient of yours. Someone who I believe is responsible for my own incarceration. So how is that fair, really. He is let out to trap me in. Do you always play favourites, Dr.?”  
“Tell me what the information is regarding, and I’ll make you an offer.” Frederick said calmly. Maybe he could make this work, after all.  
“It’s about the so-called Mythology Killer. I believe the FBI have no leads, and I’ve heard you like to win things.”  
“Alright. Tit for tat, you say. So how would you like to tell this supposed ‘information’ of yours to the man responsible for your incarceration? Would that be a fair trade, Mr. Berkovich?”  
“I’ll have to think about it.”  
“Well you do that. You know how to let me know when you’ve decided.” Frederick stood, relieved.  
“Tick tock, Dr. Chilton,” he whispered behind him. “How many beats do you have left?”

Frederick blushed as he watched Will step into the office behind Agent Purnell, and steered his eyes away to focus on the blonde crisp woman before him.  
“Dr. Chilton,” she reached her hand across his desk, and he stood to shake it. “My sincerest apologies for the injury you sustained while in our care, and a pleasure to finally meet you.”  
She stared pointedly at his cheek, and he forced a smile.  
“And I return the pleasure, Agent Purnell.”  
“I trust you’ve already met Will Graham?” she stepped aside, and he nodded, catching the still-startled look on Will’s face.  
“Please, take a seat,” he gestured to the single seat before his desk, which Agent Purnell promptly took, forcing Will to stand.   
“I didn’t know you had returned to work, Dr. Chilton,” Will murmured. “Although I’m pleased you have.”  
“Yes, well. Anyway, before we go down to visit Mr. Berkovich, I must warn you that he is a thoroughly unpleasant man, and as he has yet to sit trial for competency reasons, reasons I suspect he has manufactured, it is likely this is a stunt to get a reduced sentence.”  
“Of course, Dr.”  
“He is highly intelligent, and I would ask that you please stay well back from his cell. Now, I have some work to do - so Peter here -” Frederick nodded at the guard standing in the back of his office - “will escort you down. Feel free to drop back in on your way out if you have any questions.”  
“Thank you, Dr. Chilton,” Agent Purnell smiled icily, following the guard out of his office. Will turned at the door.  
“Frederick?”  
“Can I help you, Mr. Graham?”  
“I…” Frederick watched as Will’s face fell. “Nevermind. It’s nothing. Thanks.”  
Frederick chewed his lip and watched them go, trying to crush the guilt that threatened to consume him. It’s for the best, he reminded himself. It wasn’t fair on Will, and it wasn’t fair on him to prolong this, this… affair, for any longer than was necessary. It would be a lot easier if it weren’t for those puppy dog eyes, Frederick thought grimly, forcing his thoughts to return to the paperwork before him. The patient has a severe dissociative disorder, he read, Will’s smile interrupting his sentence, that silly lopsidedness of the fold of his lips, the way he… no. Read, Frederick. The patient has a severe dissociative disorder and… holy Will’s lips had been soft, much softer than Frederick had imagined - no hunger in them, only gentle caresses. Frederick cursed out loud, running his hands through his hair. He shouldn’t have agreed to see them first - a guard could’ve taken it, he really really didn’t need to see Will. But he had wanted to. Wanted to gauge his reaction to Frederick’s return to work - and then he hadn’t even be able to look at him.   
His heart rattled unpleasantly against his ribcage as he recalled the disappointment across Will’s pretty features, the hurt. Fuck.   
Read, Frederick. The patient has… maybe Will wouldn’t be like the others? Maybe he could tell him, and it would be fine. Maybe he’d be understanding. Others, Frederick laughed - other, more like. After the one, he’d broken off every encounter he’d had, with the fear that they would fail as the first had - the first with someone who wasn’t asexual, that was. It was probably a good thing his last crush hadn’t amounted to anything, Frederick laughed dryly, glad that that particular kettle of fish had been Alana’s problem, and not his. But he had won this time - Will was his problem, not hers - not that Will would be a problem for her, he guessed, only too happy to… no. Stop, Frederick. For God’s sake, you’ve barely started this patient’s file.   
The patient has a severe dissociative disorder and likely suffers from… but the way his hair flopped like spaniel’s curls over those blue, blue eyes, the crease of stubble across his lower jaw, so… so…  
“Dr. Chilton?”  
Startled, he glanced up to see Agent Purnell loitering in his doorway.   
“Ah, yes, sorry, how can I help?”  
“I just wanted to let you know your patient was very helpful. Gave us his first name, which is something. If he proves to be telling the truth, of course. So thank you for contacting me. I’ll let you know if anything comes of this.”  
“You’re more than welcome, Agent.”  
Frederick sighed. Stop thinking about Will, he instructed himself. And finish this goddamned patient file.


	10. I'm his Patsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chilton gets himself into a bit of trouble and Purnell is a dick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I really don't like Purnell. Can you tell? Is it obvious? More angst in this chapter too, which I thought you'd all like since Bad Things are happening...

Chapter Ten: Will

FBI agents and CSI swarmed the hilltop where the latest body had been found. She was hung from a tree like a puppet, her brain and heart balanced in a set of gold scales that dangled from one hand, her feet nailed to the tree. Will cocked his head, looking at the body before him. She was blue, stiff now, with a line of purple bruising encircling her neck. Her skull-cap had been replaced - the line of deep mahogany separating it from the rest of her face.   
“Looks like one of Lecter’s crimes,” Agent Purnell moved up beside him, shielding her face from the sunlight.  
“It’s an imitation, sure,” Will replied. “Although it is a poor one at best.”  
“Tell me about the killer, then, Mr. Graham.”  
“Well, I would suggest that whoever did this may have been deliberately trying to reproduce Hannibal- someone who looks up to him, who wishes to be like him.”  
“Someone like Frederick Chilton, perhaps.”  
“No.” Will squinted, examining the lack of blood around the nail at her feet.  
“But he fits the profile, Mr. Graham. Convince me why we shouldn’t arrest him.”  
“I’ve got two reasons, and a coroner will back me up. First, look at the organs, at the hole where her heart was removed or the line where the skull was severed. See how… brutish they are? How destroyed and imperfect the heart and brain are? This woman was butchered. Strangled, and then hacked at to imitate a crime of Dr. Lecter’s.”  
“A crime he committed for you,” Purnell muttered.   
“Do you want my help or not, Agent Purnell?” Will rounded on her, angry. “I am not to be blamed for anything that was committed by my psychiatrist, Purnell. Although your hands are not entirely without bloodshed. May I finish?”  
“Continue,” she replied, unphased by his outburst.  
“Yes, no one is denying that Frederick… Chilton is a poor medical doctor. But he does have at least rudimentary surgical skills - this killer did not. The gash he made to get her heart out is bigger than necessary, because he didn’t know where exactly her heart was. The brain has been cut into multiple times, the killer had no idea about the thickness of her skull. At best, this man is a butcher and he is certainly unskilled in human anatomy. Secondly, I doubt the coroner would find any organs missing, for that is a detail kept out of the press, although it is a detail Chilton is acutely aware of.” Will paused, realising something. He felt his heart stop in dread, painfully sure of the motive behind this killing and turned to Purnell, her words and his anger forgotten, panic bubbling in to replace the anger in his chest.  
“It’s not Chilton,” he whispered, “but it’s designed to look like it was. He’s in horrible danger.”  
“Well, we’ll put a protection…”  
“Don’t. You need to arrest him. Make sure it looks like we bought it - that we think it’s him, and don’t let Chilton know we don’t, his reaction needs to be real. Call in the order now, and I’ll explain on the way back to the bureau.”  
“Fine,” Purnell lifted her phone to her ear.

“It’s not just an imitation of what Lecter did to the judge,” Will said, wishing the car would hurry up, hoping that Frederick would be safely in interrogation by the time he got back. “Because there is no reason that the killer couldn’t have found someone of the same relative age. There was no blindfold either and her skull was replaced whereas his was removed entirely. These were deliberate decisions, because while she was supposed to look like Chilton had attempted to emulate Hannibal, she also represents Libra.”  
“Libra.”  
“Yes. She was killed by the Mythology killer.”  
“Libra isn’t exactly a god, Mr. Graham.”  
“She’s not a god at all. This killing was a favour to a friend, but he couldn’t let that aspect of himself go, and so she still represents his ties to the ancient world - Libra was just the only one he could think of. This killer is of average IQ, although he is someone who wishes it were higher. He understands how to emulate others, but has no real interest in doing so, because he believes he is unique.”  
“A favour for a friend?”  
“Yes. Dr. Chilton appears to have upset Mr. Berkovich, who knows a lot more about the Mythology killer than he let on. They are friends, neighbours, colleagues or family - someone close enough to Mr. Berkovich to have told him that he was a killer, someone close enough that Mr. Berkovich could ask him a favour. Check all his ties and any correspondence he may have had.”  
“Could they have been partners?”  
“Possibly, although I suspect the Mythology killer thinks too highly of himself to work with someone as intelligent as Mr. Berkovich. He’s someone who does not take instructions well; not a team player. Did anything come of the number plate he gave you?”  
“No,” Purnell replied. “It was an antique car, belonged to an elderly man who passed two years ago, no trace of it.”  
“Then it’s crucial that Mr. Berkovich believes that we think Chilton’s responsible, otherwise I imagine he’ll just have him killed.”

“Will…?” Frederick looked terrified. He was shaking like a leaf, his hands cuffed to the bench before him. A brief flicker of relief passed over his face as Will entered the interrogation room, but it disappeared as quick as it had come; there was no room for it in amongst the fear that engulfed the older man.  
“What’s g...going on, Will?” Frederick managed, staring wild-eyed over Will’s shoulder into the glass that surrounded the room. “What did I do?”  
“Nothing, Dr. Chilton. You’re here for your own protection.”  
“Protection?” Frederick drew his eyes level with Will’s, forcing contact. Anger shot black jets across his face. “Last time I was in FBI so-called protection, I was shot in the face. If I’m not under arrest, I would like to leave this instant. And this time I am definitely going to sue - dragged in in front of all my colleagues for nothing? Undo these handcuffs.”  
Will leaned forward and slid a key into the silver rings around Frederick’s wrists.  
“You can leave, of course. But I’d prefer it if we went somewhere more comfortable for you, maybe Jack’s old office. If you leave now, I guarantee you that you’ll be killed. Forget Abel Gideon, forget Hannibal Lecter, there will be no coming back from this one if you walk out now. Please trust me. I… I don’t know what I’d do if you were killed.”  
Will lifted his eyes to meet Frederick’s, knowing the effect they usually had on people. Frederick was tensed in anger, his shoulders stiffly held around his neck as he ground his teeth waiting for Will to unlock him, but as Will held his gaze, he sighed, the energy puffing out of him.  
“Fine, I’ll let you explain first.” Obediently, he followed Will into the FBI waiting room, and they sat next to each other, Will unfolding the file in his hand with the picture of the body they found this morning.  
“This was meant to look like your handiwork,” he said gently. “And I suspect a friend of Mr. Berkovich’s is behind it. For whatever reason, Frederick, he wants you dead or locked up. We had to arrest you the way we did, because we need your employees to talk about it. We need the news of your arrest to get back to Berkovich so he will think he’s got away with it. So he won’t need to kill you.”  
“This is silly, Will. You have no reason to think he’s trying to kill me. Just because I was Hannibal’s patsy…” Will interrupted him to read out the number plate Berkovich had given them.  
“It’s a blue chevrolet belair coupe.”  
“Yes, I know. It’s sitting in my garage at home, what of it.”  
“How come it’s not registered to you?”  
“I bought it about five years ago from an elderly man. It doesn’t go. I’ve been meaning to fix it up and register it but I’ve never got around to it. What does this have to do with anything?”  
Will looked at him, chewing the corner of his lip. He wanted Frederick to work it out for himself, knew it would be easier if he did.  
“Wait, if it’s not registered, how did you…?” alarm passed through Frederick’s eyes.  
“That’s the number plate that Berkovich gave us for the killer,” Will explained quietly.  
“But that’s in my garage, I don’t drive it to work, how could he… oh god. Oh god. They’ve been in my garage.”  
Will nodded, wishing he could give the older man a hug, wishing he could touch him in a way that would be soothing but knowing that he couldn’t, he could only watch as Frederick fell to pieces in front of him.  
“So we need you to stay here. In two days, we’ll send you home with security - long enough to look like we’re trying to find more evidence. But for now, just stay put and they’ll sort out somewhere for you to sleep here. Do you know what you did, to annoy Berkovich, I mean?”  
“I…” Frederick didn’t know. From memory, the meeting had gone quite well, and he’d barely seen him since then. He shook his head.   
“That’s okay. Just curious.” Will stood, folding up the file.  
“Wait,” he felt Frederick reach out, his fingertips brushing the sleeve of Will’s jacket. “Please, don’t go.” Will turned, catching Frederick’s expression. Terror mixed into distraught features, and Will nodded, managing a tiny smile.  
“Give me five, I’ll be right back.”

By the time Will got back, Frederick looked like he was ready to crumple and doing his very best to hold back tears. He’d messed up his hair somehow, although Will had no idea how that could’ve happened in the ten-ish minutes he’d been away, and his suit seemed to be falling off him. He was bent in half on the seat, his head in his hands.  
“Frederick?” Will murmured, lowering himself next to the doctor as close as he could manage without physically touching him. Frederick sighed.  
“Why me, Will? I just managed to get back to work, and now this is happening all over again. I don’t know if I can do it again, I don’t…”  
“You’re braver than you think.”   
“I’m not. How do you do it?” he pulled himself out of his hands and glanced at Will - who’d been right, his eyes watered with tears he was too stubborn to let fall. “How do you come back to this job every day, knowing that Hannibal or one of the other numerous sociopaths could kill you at any moment?”   
Will bit his tongue, resisting his urge to correct the doctor’s outdated use of language.  
“Guilt, mostly,” he said.   
“Guilt?” Frederick frowned at him, surprised. “Over what?”  
“Jack, mostly. But you, and Abigail and Alana as well. I couldn’t protect any of you, and Jack paid the highest price for what I did. I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life - the least I can do is what Jack would’ve wanted.”  
“Hannibal Lecter wasn’t your responsibility, Will. And you had nothing to do with Jack’s death - you’re not responsible for it.”  
“I am. I had three - four - chances to kill Hannibal and I failed. Every single time, even when he was cutting Abigail’s throat I just… I just watched him do it. I lead Jack into the hornet’s nest thinking I could control the queen even though it had stung me over and over, and I sat there and did nothing as it stung me again.”  
Frederick fell silent, staring at the grey wall opposite. Absent-mindedly, he ran his fingertips over the head of his cane, returned to him in Will’s absence.   
“I’m sorry for dragging you in here the way we did. It’s just… I don’t know if I could do it again. Make a mistake and watch someone I care about die for it,” Will’s voice was barely more than a whisper now, and Frederick glanced at him briefly. Like usual, Will avoided eye contact, staring at his hands, resting on his knees barely a hair’s breadth away from Frederick’s own. The warmth from the doctor’s body radiated outwards, and Will longed to close the gap between them, to bundle Frederick up in a hug. Instead, Will coughed, changing the subject.  
“Well, guilt and curiosity, mostly. So even if you don’t have the guilt, surely you have a, how did you and Alana put it, a ‘professional curiosity’ that allows you to walk back into the dragon’s lair every day for work?”  
As soon as he had finished speaking, Will realised he shouldn’t have mentioned Alana. Frederick recoiled from him slightly, increasing the distance between them, but confirming that Will’s attentions had not been misplaced. He frowned - what, then? - he wondered, what had he got so wrong?  
“So I was discussing it with Agent Purnell,” he said after a moment. “And your options, Dr. Chilton, are to either stay here for a couple of nights, or we can sneak you back to mine and leave security on the door. Your choice, but I’m more than happy if you want some company for a bit. It can get a bit lonely here, I gather - at least that’s what Freddie thought.”  
Frederick straightened, lifting his chin and smiling without his eyes.   
“I’ll be fine here, thank you.”  
“Okay,” Will replied, hoisting himself upright. “But let me know if you change your mind. Oh, and Frederick? We need to talk sometime, so let me know when you feel up to it.”  
Turning so he wouldn’t have to see the doctor’s facial expression, Will strode off down the corridor.


	11. Hand cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will tries to be helpful and is rather useless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So present for Dennis in this chapter. More feelings. Sorry if they've been less well-written lately, I'm back learning and don't have as much time! Hope it's okay...

Chapter Eleven: Frederick

Cold sweat slid down Frederick’s face, and he twisted in his sleep, brow furrowing in anguish. A yelp peeled out of his mouth, and he awoke with a start, the room solidifying around him as he took deep breaths, trying to dispel the dream. He’d been lying on Hannibal’s dinner table, his guts in his hands again, body engulfed in pain. Only this time he had been aware of his surroundings, aware of Will and Hannibal fighting beside his head.  
“Someone will notice he’s gone, Hanni,”  
“That is of no concern to you, Will. He is a gift, and you should be grateful,”  
“I know, but I’m worried about you.”  
“I am far too careful to be caught, Will, you know this.”  
Hannibal stretched across Frederick, tilting Will’s chin up for a kiss.   
“Help,” Frederick managed to groan at the bottom of Will’s chin. “Please help me.”  
Will slid away from Hannibal’s grasp and met Frederick’s eyes.  
“You heard him, Dr. Chilton. You are a gift, and it would not be gracious of me to decline.” Lifting his knife and fork, Will cut into Frederick’s cheek.

He shook, hugging himself tight and trying to force the imagery out of his head. He slid around, placing his feet flat on the cold floor of the tiny FBI overnight room he’d been given to sleep in, doubling over with his head in his hands. A throbbing sensation in his face caused Frederick to raise his hand, massaging the bullet wound again. It’d been several weeks since it had given him this much grief, and he wasn’t sure why it was aching again now - although the pain was a welcome distraction. Damnit, Frederick thought. Without any of his usual things it was going to be a tough day - he suspected the FBI showers would be cold, unpleasant and exposed, and then he was going to have to dress in yesterday’s clothes. It was bad enough that he’d have to see Will today - at any point, presumably - let alone see a whole lot of professional people looking less than his best. He sighed; it wasn’t like he had any choice in the matter.  
There was a knock at the door, startling Frederick out of his thoughts. He pulled the blankets further around himself, feeling exposed.   
“Ah, come in?”  
Will stuck curls around the edge of the door.   
“Are you okay?”   
“Um, yes. Fine. How come?”  
“Well, I was going to drop by your place and pick some stuff up for you, but since you’re up, do you want to tell me what you want?”  
Frederick glanced at his gold-plated watch.  
“It’s five am,” he muttered. “Why are you even here?”  
“I was worried about you,” Will said blandly. “So figured I’d do something useful, rather than just lying at home not sleeping. And I heard you scream, so…”  
“Ah. Shit. Sorry.”  
“It’s okay. What do you want me to grab?”  
One hand scratched at the stubble already starting to sprout on his lower jaw, thinking. God, he could do with that slutty black dress at the back of his wardrobe, or a tank and floral shorts - the outfits that always seemed to make him feel comfortable and himself again, no matter what. Although there was no way in hell he could ask Will for any of those things. And he desperately needed skincare and haircare products -well fuck it. Will could just think whatever the hell he wanted.  
“Underwear, obviously. And socks,” Will was saying.   
“There’s a hand cream by my bedside table,” Frederick interrupted, using his doctor’s voice unconsciously. “It’s coconut and shea butter. That. And there’s a vanilla body wash, and one of my face creams, I don’t really mind which. I’ll need my regular shampoo, and the good conditioner because I expect the showers here probably won’t be very good for my hair. The rosewater hair gel, in the pink container on the shelf in the bathroom, and there’s a foot cream that matches the body wash. I’ll also need a moisturiser, but I’m not very fussy over which one of those you select - there’s a shelf for them in the bathroom, you’ll find it, and…what?”  
Catching a glimpse of Will’s expression, Frederick broke off. The younger man was grinning broadly, and Frederick puckered, feeling anger rise in his chest.  
“It’s just… there is no way I’m going to remember all of that, Frederick. You’ll have to make me a list. You haven’t even got onto clothes yet. Hell, I’m not even sure I know what moisturiser is, let alone how to find an entire shelf of the stuff.”   
Frederick deflated, reflecting the smile slightly.   
“Okay, I’ll make a list,” he agreed.  
“I’ll drop some off and then give you, like, fifteen minutes.”  
“Yeah, okay. Will?” Frederick’s voice caught slightly as Will turned to leave. He glanced back at his name, eyebrows raised.  
“I…” Frederick faltered, feeling the dream rise back in his memory. “How do you intend to get my stuff back, exactly? Won’t it look suspicious if anyone is, well, watching?”  
“Evidence bags. And a couple of uniforms are going to come with me, maybe Zeller too, depending on whether he’s in by the time you’ve finished the list. Anything else?”  
“No, no. Thank you.”

The list did take Frederick quite a while, agonising over whether to put his comfort clothes on it or not. He decided not, but there was still two pages of ‘necessities.’ Will swapped it for a couple of forensic psychology journals, figuring (correctly) that Frederick wouldn’t want to shower until all his products had been delivered. Frederick had made most of his way through one by the time Will returned. It was late enough by then that the regular workforce had begun to trickle in, and Frederick anxiously tore open evidence bags of his stuff, desperate for a shower.  
“You’re worse than Freddie,” Will laughed, gazing at the pile of, mostly, clothes and lotions on the FBI bunk bed.   
“Freddie? Oh. Lounds,” Frederick replied absentmindedly. Will was not good at this - he turned the bottle of cologne in his hand.  
“I said to get something professional, not something dressy,” he complained, frowning at Will.  
“And…?”  
“This is… well, dressy I guess. It’s certainly not professional. Why did you pick it?”  
“I liked the bottle,” Will replied. Frederick closed his eyes, irritated, and bit his tongue.   
“Sorry.”   
“Well, it’s not like I have much choice now. Did you get even a single shirt that matches any one of these suits?” Frederick pushed through the pile. “Oh god, the colours are so wrong. What is the matter with you?”   
Will’s eyebrows shot up under the mop of hair and he glanced down at his figure.  
“For starters, I live with a pack of dogs, so matching colours isn’t really high on my priority list. It’ll be fine, no one will notice or care.”  
“Ha. Speak for yourself.”  
Frederick turned back to the pile of clothes on his bed. Truly awful. And he’d bought him a pinstripe suit and a striped shirt to go with it. None of the ties matched. It was the wrong foot cream, although that was probably the smallest issue.   
“Will,” Frederick grumbled, finding another thing wrong. He turned around to find Will gone, leaving Frederick to his own devices.   
Shit, he thought, sinking on to the bed. He was only trying his best, the poor boy, and you upset him. At least you have a change of clothes, even if it looks like they were picked out by a blind five-year-old. A shower, Frederick decided. A shower, so you feel better, and then you have to apologise. 

Frederick didn’t get the chance. Will was out on a case, and then teaching - home for the day, as one of the techies (Frederick couldn’t remember their names) explained, when he’d worked up the courage to ask after him. So instead, he lay in bed feeling guilty and wide awake. Only the odd night-guard still milled around the building, and the rush of the day had been replaced by sweet silence. Yet despite the relative quiet, despite the early start he’d had, Frederick couldn’t sleep. Part of him tried to blame it on how bloody uncomfortable the bed was, but inside he knew that the dream had shaken him more than he cared to admit. And not just because it brought up old trauma - there was no denying that. No, if it had only bothered him because of his position in it, he was sure he could’ve talked about it with someone - the FBI psychologist, perhaps, who had been offered if he needed her services. What had bothered him, more than anything, was the comfortable intimacy Will had had with Hannibal Lecter.   
We need to talk. The words rang in his ears, and he knew that sooner or later, they’d have the conversation he’d been avoiding. Usually, a rejection was enough, he found. Usually they backed off, offended by the apparent lack of emotional reciprocation. Certainly, Will had left him alone in the immediate aftermath of their kiss, and Frederick had assumed he was rid of Will for good. But Will had been desperately sweet in the last day and a half, and Frederick didn’t know how to feel. They clearly weren’t done, but much to his surprise, this pleased him. Maybe he wasn’t ready to give up, not this time.  
Snuggling into the blanket, Frederick gave in to the thoughts that he’d been forcing away for a while now, and imagined Will sliding into the bed beside him, the gentle curve of his stomach against Frederick’s back as he pulled him close, engulfing him in the warmth of physical connection. He remembered the taste of his lips, the gentility in them, the safety of knowing that Will would never hurt him on purpose.  
As Frederick drifted off to sleep, lost in a dream entirely more pleasant than the one he’d woken up to, he was filled with hope that maybe, just maybe, he could tell the truth and it would all work out okay.


	12. Rome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will flies half way across the world to find Hannibal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what I'm doing. I'll resolve this eventually I promise...

Chapter 12: Will

Will had been right about Rome. They had security footage of him passing through the airport a few days before the date on the envelope, coming off a flight from Paris. The black-and-white footage rolled before Will’s eyes now, but it seemed far away, like a movie from a different time. Arms linked with Bedelia, the two sauntered through the airport looking the very picture of a married couple. Europe suited them both, Hannibal with his high eastern-european bone structure, and Bedelia reflecting a cover model from a Parisian fashion magazine. Will felt his throat catch with an emotion he hadn’t been expecting - jealousy. It was he who was supposed to be there, not Bedelia, although he had to admit she looked a lot better that he would’ve in her place.  
“Hmm, what, sorry?” Will drew his eyes away from the screen, aware Purnell had been speaking. She sighed, infuriated.  
“You have to be at the airport for check-in in three hours. Go home, pack.”  
“Wait, what?”  
“You’re going to Rome. Detective Rinaldo Pazzi has requested your assistance on the case, as the person most informed, shall we say, about Lecter and his state of mind.”  
“But…”  
“You leave in three hours, Mr. Graham. No buts. Go home, and I’ll send a car to collect you.”

The clock ticked loudly, breaking into Will’s thoughts. He was standing in his living room, dogs lying over his feet, and he looked up at the spear of its hands, realizing in alarm he’d been standing there for quite some time. Shit. Not again, Will cursed. He barely remembered driving home, and he’d just lost twenty minutes in his living room floor. Anxiety ripped at the bottom of his stomach - Hannibal. He was being sent to catch Hannibal. He understood why, of course. They thought he was the best. They thought he was determined and insightful and able to bring down a man they’d hunted for so long. What they didn’t know was that even Will himself was unsure of what he’d do if he actually found Hannibal. Faulter, probably, Will thought dryly. Get himself stabbed again.   
Frederick. Shit. He’d have to tell him he was going. He’d been back home with a security guard for two days now, and they were supposed to be having another Survivors meeting tonight - surely Frederick would be able to handle that himself? Shit. Fuck. Bugger it all to hell. He wasn’t going to be happy, that was for sure, and Will had had quite enough of upsetting him for a lifetime. Striding through into the bedroom, Will haphazardly stuffed a suitcase full of clothes, clicking it shut and rationalising that he could definitely buy whatever he’d forgotten over there. Snatching his passport from his bedside table, he lifted the phone of the hook and rang Alana.  
“Can you feed the dogs for a while?” he blurted, forgetting the hello. “Get someone to walk them - if you have to pay, let me know and I’ll pay you back.” He’d been walking Applesauce for her lately, and knew she didn’t yet have the strength to go for long walks.  
“What? Will, wait. Where are you going?”  
“Rome,” he replied. “Alana, thanks, I…”  
“No don’t. You’re not allowed to hang up without a proper explanation.”   
He heard the concern in her voice and sighed, glancing at the clock. He was running out of time, and he desperately wanted to see Frederick before he left.  
“They’ve found Hannibal. He’s in Rome, and I leave in… an hour and a half.”  
“Will! You can’t go… you… he’s… why didn’t you tell me before?”  
“I only found out like an hour ago. I have to, Alana. We have to catch him.”  
There was a pause on the end of the line, and he could tell, between static, she was struggling to hold her composure. Yet another person he was tired of hurting.   
“Don’t… don’t get yourself killed Will. Don’t you dare let him win,” her words were clear and as calm as she could force them to be, riding in waves over the terror in her tone.   
“Yes. Of course. Thanks Alana,”  
“Please come back,” she whispered, her voice replaced by dial tone as she hung up. The phone suddenly seemed a strange white object in his hand, and he threw it onto it’s hanger, not wanting anything more to do with the reality behind it; the truth in her tone. Despite what Purnell thought, Will knew that with every clash between he and Hannibal, his chances of survival drastically fell away.

Breathing a deep breath of crisp air, Will extended a hand and rapped sharply on Frederick’s door. He’d already waved at the guards outside, flashing his ID, in order not to scare them. The door peeled open, and pale-faced Frederick peered out around the white wooden frame.  
“Will…? What are you…”  
“Can I come in, for a bit. I need to tell you something.”  
“Um, yes. Yes of course.” Frederick stepped back, and Will pushed past him over the threshold.  
“I only have fifteen minutes, so shut up and listen please, I have a lot I want to say and this may be my last chance to say it, so just please let me finish before you say anything,” Will planted himself squarely opposite the older man and took a deep breath. He stared bluntly at his shoes, forcing the words out. Wide-eyed, Frederick just nodded, gazing at Will with a mixture of concern and confusion.  
“I am about to get on a plane to Rome. I didn’t have a choice, I’ve been sent, so don’t tell me not to go. They’ve found Hannibal, and they need my help in catching him. I really don’t know if I’ll come back alive, Frederick, so I need to say this now. I… I don’t know what happened the other day. The last thing I meant to do was upset you, but it seems that’s pretty much all I’m good at now, and I’ve been trying to fix it but I don’t know how. I like you, more than I should, and I thought that was, in part, a reflection of your feelings for me, but either I’m missing something phenomenal, or I misread that. Either way, I don’t want to leave with you unhappy at me, so I wanted to apologise. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry. Your friendship since Jack’s death has been so important to me and I just… I…” the words welled up and Will choked on them, raising his head now to meet Frederick’s eyes, to judge what needed to be said, what could be left unsaid and whether he was making any sort of sense at all. Frederick’s confusion had been replaced with fear, and silently he took the distance between them in a stride and pulled Will against him, their lips meeting clumsily and briefly, before Frederick pulled Will against his shoulder and just held them together. Will felt the tears slip out of his control, rolling down his cheek, but Frederick just hugged him tighter, so tight that Will could feel their hearts beating, both altogether too fast.   
Finally, Frederick let go, wiping Will’s tears with his thumb.  
“Please come back,” he said, sounding eerily like Alana. “I’ll explain everything when you’re back, Will, but you have to go, and now is probably best.”  
Will nodded, shuddering involuntarily. Awkwardly, he leaned forward, kissing Frederick gently.  
“Goodbye,” he whispered, barely able to force the words past his tongue.  
“Goodbye, Will. I… good luck.”  
Without looking back for fear of never being able to leave, Will stumbled down Frederick’s drive and back to his car. 

“Will Graham, I assume? Detective Pazzi,” a tall, dark-skinned man in a leather jacket and thick Italian accent greeted him off the plane. Will nodded, disorientated. He’d always been good at sleeping on planes, and he barely remembered the journey although it had left him sleepy and not altogether with it. Pazzi raised his eyebrows, and Will realised he’d forgotten to shake his hand.   
“Oh, sorry.”  
“Jet-lagged? Unfortunate. Ride with me back to the station and I’ll catch you up on what we’ve found.”  
The car was nice, expensive for what he expected from local cops - both Frederick and Hannibal would like this, Will thought. The news on Hannibal’s whereabouts was far more predictable - they didn’t know, although Pazzi did a good job of talking around it to make it seem like they did. They had security footage of him in all the places Will could’ve already guessed; a handful of fine restaurants, the Vatican and half a dozen art galleries. Eyewitness reports had him at four concerts, which Will suspected just meant nobody had thought to come forward for the many, many more he suspected Hannibal was attending. And women who looked like Bedelia had been, unreliably, sighted everywhere. Not surprising, really - she was a thin, blonde woman, a dime a dozen in Rome.  
The precinct itself was average, especially in comparison to what Will had been expecting after the flashy car. He was greeted by a dozen or so people, all testing their English and shaking his hand as if he was some celebrity here. It was unsettling.   
“Will Graham?” one of the police officers sitting at a desk just down from him yelled over the hubbub of the station. “Phone for you.”  
Will frowned, taking the phone out of her hand with a small smile of thanks. Surely Purnell didn’t care enough to be checking on him, but he doubted Alana would be audacious enough to call the station to find him.   
“Will,” a familiar voice growled down the phone. Will’s heart stopped. Hannibal.  
“Glad to see you’ve finally made it over to Europe. Have you been here before Will? Be a tourist, enjoy some of the finer things in life. Maybe we’ll bump into one another. I have to go, before they track this call, you see. Have a nice trip, Will.”  
For the second time in twenty-four hours, Will stared blankly at the dialtone, feeling numb.  
“What is it?” Pazzi was at his side. “Was that…?”  
“Doctor Lecter, yes.”  
“Did he say where he was?”  
“Tourist,” Will replied unsure if it were even his mouth the words were coming from. “He said be a tourist.”  
“What?”  
“I don’t know,” Will replied, and rubbed at his forehead. “But I need to check into the hotel room. If there’s nothing else…?”  
“No, no. Go.”

“I didn’t know if it would be okay to call,” Frederick said, his voice crackling over the hotel phone. Will pressed it to his ear, hoping to catch every syllable as clearly as possible.  
“Of course,” Will replied. “I’m just a bit tired.”  
“Oh, oh okay. I’ll let you get some rest then,”   
“No! I mean… no, please don’t go just yet.”  
“Did you have a nice flight?” he was trying, bless him. But it was nice just to hear a comforting voice. His heart was still racing from the conversation with Hannibal, and something about the nervous tone in Frederick’s voice grounded him somewhat. Part of him wanted to chant the time, his name and where he was, like Dr. Lecter had taught him, but the teacher was precisely the reason he no longer did that.   
“Yes, well. It was a flight, I mean.”  
“Are you okay? You sound…”  
“Hannibal called me today.”  
“Oh… fuck,” Will resisted the urge to giggle, the swear word sounding so foreign in Frederick’s voice. “What… what did he say?”  
“Nothing, really. Not as far as I could tell. I think he just wanted to scare me.”  
“It worked, too, didn’t it.”  
“Yes.”  
There was silence on the line, and Will looked at the red blinking lights on the digital clock by the bed. It was late enough that he could go to sleep now, he knew, but he didn’t feel like it just yet, his heart racing.  
“So how long do you think you’ll be gone?” Frederick asked, sounding every bit as awkward as Will felt.   
“Hopefully not long. Have you been to Rome?”  
“Yes, twice, actually. You should check out the night markets, there’s some wonderful stuff there.”  
“Oh?”  
“Yes, boutiquey. And beautiful. If you’re not doing anything, of course.”  
“No, no. I might just do that. Thanks, Frederick.”   
Another pause, and Will realised as much as he wanted to keep talking, they had nothing to say.  
“Thanks for calling, but I should probably go to bed now…”  
“Yeah, yes, of course. Of course. Goodnight, Will.”  
“Goodnight.” 

Frederick had been right about the night markets, Will thought as he wandered down the cobbled street, the lamps like mini moons lining the street, casting a warm yellow glow over the street vendors. Laughter filled the air, and Will wrapped his coat around himself, feeling less alone surrounded by happy people. The smell of food wafted around, and Will realised he hadn’t eaten in a while. He followed his nose to a hotdog vendor, handing over a note in exchange for a tomato sauce dipped battered sausage. Will grinned, oh Hannibal would have disapproved so much, he thought, immediately wondering what Frederick would think. He imagined walked together down this street, Frederick protesting at his eagerness to eat street food, but eventually giving in and enjoying it far more than Will even. His smile grew, and he realised how silly he must look, wandering down the street grinning at a hot dog. Will sighed, turning the corner at the end, and realising he must’ve wandered off track. It was dark here, unlit by streetlamps, and Will wondered if he should keep going in the hope that it turned back into a busy street, or if he should turn back. Turning back was probably the best, he realised, swallowing the last of the hotdog and spinning round back towards the light.  
“Will,” Will stopped frozen at the familiar tone. Hannibal stood before him, blocking the street entry.   
“Hannibal,” he said, trying to stop the panic from rising into his tone.   
Hannibal stepped forward, lankly folding the distance between them in half.  
“I’ve missed you,” he said, more intimately than Will had imagined. Will stepped backwards, away from the taller man.   
“Very well,” Hannibal added, raising his hands and falling still. “I don’t want to hurt you, Will. I just wanted to see you.”  
“Last time you saw me, Dr. Lecter, you almost killed me.”  
“I did. You betrayed me.”  
“I don’t think it’s quite the same.”  
“I do. How is Frederick Chilton?” he asked.   
“What?” Oh shit, shit. Will cursed himself. If Hannibal didn’t know anything, he certainly did now.   
“I smell his cologne on you. A garish, pompous smell quite befitting the man in question.”  
“After you left, Dr. Lecter, I was in need of a new therapist.”  
“So you chose Dr. Chilton? Did I teach you nothing?”  
“I needed someone comfortable and unthreatening, as you can imagine. No need to repeat past mistakes.”  
“Ah yes, well. Frederick Chilton is certainly not a killer.”  
“How… how are you?” Will wasn’t entirely sure why he was asking. He’d forgotten entirely about the gun holstered at his hip as he scanned the doctor, trying to predict what he was planning.   
“Very well, thank you. The orchestras here are magnificent, much better than Baltimore.”  
“And Bedelia?”  
Hannibal smiled, hearing the catch in Will’s voice.   
“She’s not you,” he replied. “Goodbye, Will.”  
“Goodbye, Dr. Lecter.”  
It wasn’t until Hannibal had been gone for several minutes that Will remembered the gun at his hip.


End file.
